THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mary  Randall 


r 


THE  GOLDEN  DAYS 


BY 

EDNA    LYALL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "DONOVAN,"  "DERRICK  VAUGHAN," 
ETC.,  ETC. 


^4L.4u  V-JU( 


NEW   YORK 
JOHN  W-  LOVELL  COMPANY 

150  WORTH  STREET,  CORNER  MISSION  PLACE 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAIS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"GOOD  KING  CHARLES'S  GOLDEN  DAYS." 

What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  untainted  I 
Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just, 
And  he  but  naked,  though  locked  up  in  steel, 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

"  THAT  stripling  of  yours  is  too  quiet  by  half,  Randolph. 
You  should  shake  him  up  a  bit — give  him  a  little  of  your 
superfluous  energy." 

"  Hugo  is  but  nineteen  ;  you  can  hardly  expect  him  to 
be  aught  but  a  raw  school-boy." 

Sir  Peregrine  Blake  laughed. 

"  School-boy,  indeed !  as  little  of  a  boy  as  ever  I  saw. 
You've  kept  him  too  close,  Randolph,  and  that's  a  fact! 
Mewed  him  up  as  though  he  were  a  convent  maid." 

"  He  had  good  schooling  at  Westminster,"  returned  tha 
other,  "  and  if  Dr.  Busby  couldn't  birch  him  into  an  ordi- 
nary fellow,  how  can  I  help  it  ?  I'm  sure  he  has  had  enough 
thrashings  from  me  alone  to  harden  him." 

"  I'll  warrant  that,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  smiling  broadly. 
"  You  were  ever  a  good  hand  at  keeping  other  folk  in 
order.  For  my  part,  I  marvel  that  your  brother  is  so  will- 
ing to  bow  down  to  you  in  everything." 

"  Habit,  Blake — a  mere  matter  of  habit.  I've  brought 
him  up  to  it,  and  now  begin  to  reap  the  reward  of  my 
pains.  He  will  be  a  useful  second  to  me." 

"Why  don't  you  get  him  a  commission?  The  army  is 
the  best  cure  for  your  bookish,  philosophizing  youth." 


IVJ854160 


4  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  He's  not  fit  for  active  service.  Besides,  I  would  rather 
have  him  in  my  own  profession." 

"  '  Others  believe  no  voice  to  an  organ 
So  sweet  as  lawyer's  in  his  bar-gown,' " 

trolled  Sir  Peregrine,  quoting  from  "  Hudibras,"  the  great 
satire  of  the  times.  "  Well,  after  all,  the  bar  is  the  usual 
thing  for  younger  sons.  Have  you  fairly  settled  the  matter?" 

"  Quite.  He  was  entered  as  a  student  at  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple six  months  ago,  and  already  he  has  taken  up  with  the 
most  jovial  and  rollicking  of  the  Templars,  who  will  soon 
stir  him  up." 

•'  What,  that  fellow  Denham,  who's  riding  with  him  now?'* 

"  Ay,  the  one  who  was  so  lucky  yesterday  at  Newmarket. 
I  never  knew  such  a  fellow — he  was  born  to  win." 

"  By  my  faith  !  an  odd  pair  of  friends !"  said  Sir  Pere- 
grine, laughing.  "  Eupert  Denham — dare-devil,  and  Hugo 
Wharncliffe — passive  obedience  in  the  flesh  !" 

The  elder  brother  frowned  a  little. 

"  Passive  obedience  has  its  advantages,"  he  remarked, 
with  some  asperity. 

And  for  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

The  two  were  riding  along  a  rough  track  which  in  those 
days — two  hundred  years  ago — was  dignified  by  the  name 
of  a  road.  All  around  them  lay  a  vast  expanse  of  slightly 
undulating  ground  covered  with  low  gorse-bushes  and 
heather.  Of  cultivation  no  trace  was  to  be  seen;  wild, 
open,  and  utterly  waste  lay  the  great  stretch  of  land  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  without  one  field  reclaimed  or  one 
acre  turned  to  the  profit  of  a  nation  which  yet  was  often 
in  sore  need  of  bread.  That  the  state  of  the  country  was 
not  all  that  it  might  have  been  did  not,  however,  occur  to 
the  two  gentlemen  as  they  rode  on  in  silence  on  that  Octo- 
ber afternoon  of  the  year  1682.  Randolph  Wharncliffe 
had  indeed  a  grievance,  but  it  was  a  private  grievance,  and 
as  to  troubling  himself  about  the  people  and  the  land,  or 
the  laws  of  supply  and  demand,  or  the  abject  condition  of 
the  poor,  or  the  responsibility  of  riches,  it  would  never 
have  entered  his  head. 

,He  was  now  a  little  over  forty,  a  clever,  cold-looking 
man,  evidently  one  who,  having  set  his  mind  011  any  object, 
would  pursue  it  through  thick  and  thin.  His  features  were 
regular  and  good,  but  there  was  an  ominous  want  of  re- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  5 

pose  in  the  forehead,  while  the  month,  plainly  "visible  under 
the  slender  mustache,  betrayed  a  bitter  and  overbearing 
temper.  He  wore  the  usual  long,  curled  wig  of  the  period, 
a  crimson  riding  suit,  a  short  cloak  thrown  back  over  one 
shoulder,  and  a  crimson  felt  hat  cocked  on  the  left  side. 

His  companion,  Sir  Peregrine  Blake,  was  a  few  years 
older,  in  reality,  but  years  had  left  few  traces  on  his  face 
either  for  good  or  evil.  He  was  a  bluff,  ruddy,  hot-tem- 
pered country  squire,  proud  of  his  long  pedigree,  his 
ancestral  mansion,  and  his  well-stocked  deer-park.  He  was 
a  Suffolk  magistrate,  and  flattered  himself  that  he  dis- 
charged his  duties  with  great  dignity  and  decorum.  Both 
gentlemen  were  returning  from  the  autumn  races  at  New- 
market, and  Randolph  Wharncliffe  and  his  brother  were  to 
spend  the  night  under  Sir  Peregrine's  roof  on  their  way 
back  to  London. 

The  rough  track  had  now  led  down  to  a  broader  and  more 
regular  thoroughfare,  deeply  scored,  however,  with  ruts. 
On  each  side  of  the  way  was  a  wood,  dusky  enough  to 
make  Randolph  draw  up  his  steed  sharply,  and  glance  back 
across  the  heathy  country  they  had  left. 

"  Those  two  are  loitering,"  he  said.  "  May  be  we  had  bet- 
ter wait  for  them.  This  wood  might  prove  a  snug  retreat 
for  highwaymen." 

"  I  don't  think  it,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  "  'Tis  not  far 
from  the  village  of  Mondisfield,  and  but  half  a  mile  from 
the  Hall." 

"  Mondisfield !"  exclaimed  Randolph,  in  a  tone  which 
made  his  companion  look  up  quickly. 

"  Ay,  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  place.  Why,  bless  my  soul, 
I  never  thought  of  that  before !  I  suppose  he's  near  of  kin 
to  you  ?" 

"  Thank  Heaven,  no  !"  said  Randolph,  bitterly.  "We  are 
very  distantly  related.  But  I  come  into  the  estate  at  his 
death." 

Sir  Peregrine  uttered  half  a  dozen  unwritable  ejacula- 
tions. 

"  Who'd  have  thought  it !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  I  never 
dreamed  of  connecting  you  with  that  grave,  puritanical  re- 
publican. WTe'll  drink  to-night  to  his  speedy  dissolution. 
'Twould  be  something  like  to  have  you  master  of  Modis- 
field  Hall." 

"  Hud  the  king  rewarded  his  friends  instead  of  pardon- 
ing his  foes  I  should  have  been  in  possession  these  twenty 
jears,''  said  Randolph,  his  brow  darkening,  his  lips  con- 


4 

6  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS." 

tracting  themselves  into  a  straight  line,  his  eyes  gleaming 
with  cold  anger. 

"  Ho,  ho  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Peregrine.  "  Now  I  see  how 
the  land  lies !  You  are  one  of  the  unrequited  cavaliers 
whose  fathers  melted  the  family  plate  for  the  blessed 
martyr's  use,  and  lost  their  broad  acres  for  the  privilege  of 
fighting  his  battles." 

"I  care  not  for  what  we  have  lost,"  returned  the  other; 
"  but  I  do  care  that  this  minion  of  Cromwell's,  this  hater  of 
monarchy,  should  be  calmly  enjoying  all  his  possessions, 
while  loyal  subjects  are  yet  crippled  by  poverty." 

"You  should  get  the  fellow  denounced  to  the  king. 
Catch  him  using  treasonable  words,  or  haunting  conven- 
ticles. Why,  confound  it,  Randolph !  "What's  the  good  of 
you  being  a  lawyer  if  you  can't  make  out  a  pretty  little  case 
in  your  own  behoof  ?" 

Randolph  did  not  reply.  He  looked  round  impatiently 
toward  the  other  horsemen,  who  were  approaching  them  as 
rapidly  as  the  bad  roads  would  permit. 

The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  merry,  careless-looking  fellow 
of  three-ahd-twenty;  his  whole  face  seemed  to  sparkle  with 
humor,  and  his  fantastic  dress,  covered  at  every  available 
point  with  loops  and  streamers  of  bright-colored  ribbons, 
suited  his  face  to  a  nicety. 

The  younger   Hugo   was,   indeed,  a    strange  contrast. 
In   those    days    such    a    face   could  not   but    challenge 
observation,   it   was   so   curiously   unlike   the   generality 
of  faces.       In   complexion  he   was    pale   and   somewhat 
fair.       Like    the    rest     of     the    world,    he    was    clean- 
shaven, save  for  a  very  slight  mustache;  and,  unlike  the 
rest  of  the  world,  he  had  not  as  yet  adopted  the  prevalent 
wig,  though  it  was,  as  a  rule,  eagerly  coveted  even  by  young 
boys.     He  wore  his  own  hair,  which  was  light  brown,  and 
somewhat  wanting  in  color,  but  made  up  for  its  deficiencies 
in  that  way  by  its  crisp  curliness  and  its  great  thickness 
and  length.     The  rather  large  and  marked  features  were 
well-cut,  the  chin  pointed,  the   mouth    singularly  sweet- 
tempered.     But  the  power  of  the  face  lay  in  the  forehead, 
which  was  strikingly  broad  and  open,  and  in  the  large, 
strangely  shaped,  dark-gray  eyes.  Altogether,  it  was  a  face 
to  haunt  one — full  of  interest  because  full  of  possibihties. 
Apparently  there  was,  however,  some  truth  in  Sir  Pere- 
grine's strictures.     Hugo  did,  in  fact,  look  as  though  he 
needed  waking  up.     He  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own,  bliss- 
fully removed  from  the  coarse  and  sensual  world  which  sur- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  7 

rounded  him,  but  a  world  too  shadowy,  too  dreamily  peace- 
ful to  call  forth  his  best  faculties. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  keeping  me  waiting 
like  this?"  said  Randolph,  as  his  brother  joined  him.  "Ah, 
I  see  how  it  has  been !"  he  continued,  catching  sight  of  a 
harmless-looking  bundle  of  herbs  fastened  to  his  saddle- 
bow. "  You've  been  loitering  over  those  wretched  speci- 
mens of  yours.  I'll  put  a  stop  to  it  altogether,  if  you  make 
it  such  a  general  nuisance." 

And,  with  an  angry  gesture,  he  reached  across,  tore  off 
the  bunch  of  herbs,  and  flung  them  far  away  into  the  copse 
which  bordered  the  road. 

Hugo  looked  after  them  with  a  sort  of  regret,  but  *ot 
even  a  gleam  of  anger  dawned  in  his  quiet  eyes.  He  made 
no  excuse  for  his  slowness,  neither  did  he  express  any  con- 
cern for  having  caused  his  brother  to  wait  for  him.  He  was 
absolutely,  yet  not  sulkily,  silent.  It  was  rather  as  if  some 
noisy,  screaming  bird  had  flown  across  the  surface  of  a 
calm  lake,  thinking  to  create  a  vast  disturbance,  but  quite 
powerless  to  trouble  the  deep,  still  waters ! 

The  small  cavalcade  rode  on. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Denham,  turning  a  look  of  utter  as- 
tonishment upon  his  companion,  "I'm  blessed  if  I'd  let  a 
fellow  do  that  to  me  !  Why,  he's  thrown  away  that  weed 
you  were  so  mighty  pleased  at  finding." 

"Ay,"  said  Hugo,  "I  would  I  had  not  put  it  with  the  rest. 
Something  must  have  angered  Eandolph.  May  be  he  has 
had  words  with  Sir  Peregrine." 

"  If  you  aren't  the  meekest  fellow  living,  my  name's  not 
Rupert  !"  exclaimed  Denham.  "What  right  had  he  to  fling 
away  what  belonged  to  you?" 

"  Right !"  ejaculated  Hugo.  "Why,  it  was  Randolph !  He's 
my  guardian,  you  know,  my  brother — everthing  to  me  !" 

His  face  became  more  animated  as  he  spoke;  evidently 
loyalty  to  his  very  despotic  elder  was  his  most  pronounced 
characteristic.  It  had  never  occured  to  him  not  to  obey, 
not  to  reverence. 

Just  at  this  moment  Sir  Peregrine's  horse  stumbled,  a 
proceeding  which  caused  that  worthy  to  swear  lustily. 

"A  stone  in  his  shoe,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,"  said  Randolph; 
then,  raising  his  voice,  "Dismount,  Hugo,  instantly,  and 
see  what  is  amiss  with  the  beast." 

Hugo  flung  the  reins  of  his  own  steed  to  Denham,  and  in 
a  moment  was  making  the  best  of  his  way  through  the  mud 
and  loose  stones  to  the  squire's  horse.  Sir  Peregrine  had 


8  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

also  dismounted,  but  he  left  his  horse  to  Hugo,  perhaps  not 
caring  to  spoil  his  long  riding-gloves,  perhaps  because  he 
had  caught  sight  of  an  attraction  which  he  could  never 
resist. 

By  the  roadside,  gathering  the  blackberries  which  grew 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  was  a  lovely  girl  ;  beside  her 
stood  a  little  child  of  ten  years  old,  holding  the  large  basket 
already  more  than  half  filled  with  the  shining  ripe  fruit. 

Exactly  what  passed  Hugo  never  knew;  he  was  very 
unobservant  at  all  times,  and  now,  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts  and  busy  with  the  horse,  he  heard  nothing  but  a 
hum  of  meaningless  conversation,  until  a  frightened 
indignant  cry,  in  a  girlish  voice,  fell  upon  his  ear  and 
startled  him  back  to  the  world  of  realities. 

The  scene  that  met  his  gaze  was  of  too  common  occur- 
rence to  have  aroused  him  under  ordinary  circumstances. 
That  a  pretty  girl  should  be  waylaid  by  a  fine  gentleman, 
kissed,  complimented,  treated  with  every  sort  of  insulting 
familiarity,  seemed  to  him,  or  had  seemed  until  now,  inevit- 
able. But,  then,  few  of  the  women  he  knew  made  any  sort 
of  objection  to  such  treatment.  This  girl  objected  very 
strongly. 

All  his  life  long  Hugo  could  call  up  that  picture.  The 
background  of  autumn  trees  in  russet  and  gold,  the  broad 
strip  of  grass  by  the  roadside,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
bramble-bushes,  the  little  child  with  a  face  of  astonishment 
and  horror,  and,  in  vivid  contrast,  the  red-visaged  squire 
and  the  victim  of  his  rude  attentions,  her  blue  eyes  wide 
with  fright  and  bright  with  indignation,  her  cheeks  pale 
the  short  rings  of  sunny  brown  hair  lightly  stirred  by  the 
wind  and  unprotected  by  the  brown  hood  which  had  fallen 
back  from  her  head. 

Sir  Peregrine,  nettled  by  her  resistance,  grew  more  rude 
and  importunate. 

"  No,  no,  no !"  cried  the  girl.     "  Evelyn,  call  for  help  1" 

But,  even  as  she  said  the  words,  she  knew  that  they  were 
useless.  Every  one  was  at  work  gathering  apples  in  the 
orchard,  and  the  orchard  was  half  a  mile  away. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Hugo  woke  up.  Had  Sir  Per- 
egrine guessed  what  would  be  the  first  results  of  that 
waking  he  would  have  prudently  left  his  wish  unuttered ; 
for,  al]  at  once,  in  a  way  which  absolutely  took  away  his 
breath,  he  was  aware  of  an  apparition  in  Lincoln  green 
which  thrust  itself  between  him  and  the  object  of  his  admi- 
ration, a  pair  of  strong  arms  encircled  him,  an  adroit  push 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  9 

and  jerk  came  at  that  one  vulnerable  point,  the  back  of  his 
knee,  and  in  a  trice  he  was  sprawling  on  his  back  among 
the  grass. 

"  There !  run  off  while  you  can  !"  said  Hugo,  rather 
breathlessly,  turning  to  the  rescued  maiden.  He  was  evi- 
dently well  taught  in  all  gymnastic  feats,  but  out  of  train- 
ing. 

"  Oh,"  she  faltered,  "  how  shall  I  thank  you  enough  ?" 
"By  getting  into  safety  now,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  mo- 
tioning her  back  from  the  road. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  so  decidedly,  or 
assumed  such  an  air  of  command  ;  he  felt  altogether  a 
different  creature — stronger,  freer,  but  less  peaceful ;  for 
once  in  his  life,  indeed,  positively  anxious. 

Both  Randolph  and  Denham.  had  now  dismounted.  Den- 
ham  was  trying  to  conceal  his  silent  convulsions  of  laugh- 
ter, while  Randolph,  with  an  air  of  great  concern  and  a 
crease  in  his  brow  which  boded  ill  for  Hugo's  future,  bent 
over  Sir  Peregrine,  who  was  struggling  again  to  his  feet. 

"  The  impudent,  meddling  puppy !"  he  exclaimed,  pour- 
ing forth  a  whole  volley  of  oaths.  "  You  shall  pay  dearly 
for  this,  sir !  I'll  call  you  out  for  this,  sir !" 

Randolph  looked  not  a  little  discomposed  at  this  an- 
nouncement. It  was  quite  in  accordance  with  the  customs 
of  the  times,  but,  somehow,  he  had  never  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  a  duel  for  his  brother. 

"You  would  never  fight  a  mere  school-boy  like  that, 
Blake !  I  promise  you  he  shall  have  a  sound  thrashing  to- 
night for  his  impudence.  Come  here,  Hugo  ;  apologize  to 
Sir  Peregrine  at  once." 

Hugo  moved  a  few  steps  forward,  but  did  not  utter  a 
word.  Denham  watched  his  face  curiously.  All  its  dreamy 
content  was  gone,  all  its  unquestioning  calm  dispelled  ; 
there  had  come  to  him  one  of  those  terrible  moments  which 
occur  in  most  lives  when  suddenly,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  we  are  called  upon  to  choose  between  two  courses, 
both  painfu  to  us,  both  apparently  evil.  Was  he  now,  at 
last,  to  disobey  his  guardian,  or  was  he  to  own  himself  in 
the  wrong  when  he  knew  that  he  had  been  right  ?  Either 
decision  would,  as  he  was  even  now  dimly  aware,  involve  him 
in  a  great  danger.  If  he  obeyed  his  brother's  command  his 
moral  bearing  would  be  forever  degraded.  If  he  disobeyed, 
his  physical  being  would  be  in  mortal  peril  ;  for  he  was 
quite  well  aware  that,  although  by  mere  agility  he  might 
manage  to  throw  Sir  Peregrine,  he  had  no  chance  in  an 


10  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

actual  duel.  But  to  disobey  Randolph,  and  to  do  so  with 
nothing  but  death  staring  him  in  the  face !  The  habit  of  a 
lifetime  was  not  to  be  easily  broken  ;  the  habitually  sub- 
missive will  could  not  assert  itself  without  a  violent  and 
most  painful  effort.  There  was  a  dead  pause  ;  not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard  save  the  autumn  wind  sighing  among  the 
trees  and  the  munching  of  the  horses  as  they  grazed  by  the 
roadside. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  hesitating  like  this?"  said  Ran- 
dolph,  laying  a  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Do  as  I 
tell  you,  apologize  at  once." 

"I can't  apologize,"  said  Hugo,  at  last,  in  a  quick,  agi- 
tated voice.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  had  to  throw  Sir  Pere- 
grine, but  it  was  a  disagreeable  necessity." 

"  You  meddling,  conceited  jackanapes,  what  do  you  mean 
by  a  necessity?"  thundered  Sir  Peregrine,  purple  with 
rage. 

"  Leave  him  to  me,  Blake,"  interposed  Randolph.  "  I'll 
bring  him  to  his  senses.  Now  look  here,  Hugo,  you  know 
well  enough  that  I  never  go  back  from  what  I  have  said.  I 
command  you  to  apologize.  I  am  your  guardian,  and  I  in- 
sist that  you  shall  do  your  duty  and  obey  me." 

Another  pause.  Hugo  had  grown  deathly  white.  At 
last  he  spoke  with  a  great  effort. 

"  I  obey  you  in  all  things,  air  ;  but  you  must  stand 
second  to  my  conscience." 

"Conscience!" 

There  was  a  shout  of  Uughter, 

"  He'll  turn  conventicler  next/5  shouted  Sir  Peregrine. 
"  You  idiot,  don't  you  know  that  you're  uttering  pestilent 
heresy — substituting  your  beggarly  private  judgment  for 
authority  ?" 

"  Will  you  obey  me?"  said  Randolph  once  more,  press- 
ing yet  more  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  and  speaking  in  a 
tone  which,  owing  to  certain  old  memories,  made  the  blood 
curdle  in  Hugo's  veins. 

He  looked  right  up  into  the  fierce  gray  eyes,  however, 
and  answered  firmly, 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not." 

There  was  a  touch  of  dignity  in  his  manner  which  start- 
led Denham.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  entire  absence 
of  defiance,  the  mingled  regret  and  respect  of  his  tone. 

"Then  go  to  your  destruction  !"  said  Randolph, furious- 
ly. "  Blake,*!  am  happy  to  act  as  your  second.  I  hope 
you'll  give  this  impudent  rebel  a  good  lesson." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  11 

"  No  delay,  then,"  roared  Sir  Peregrine.  "  We'll  have  it 
out,  now  that  my  blood's  up.  Coine,  look  sharp,  Wharn- 
cliffe  !" 

"  My  man  has  the  choice  of  weapons,"  said  Denham, 
stepping  forward,  and  voluntarily  taking  the  part  of  second 
to  his  friend. 

Sir  Peregrine  laughed. 

"  Let  him  take  it,  then,  and  be  quick.  Tell  him  that 
both  my  sword  and  my  pistol  have  seen  good  service,  and 
have  settled  better  men  ere  now." 

Denham  rejoined  Hugo,  who  had  retired  to  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  delivered  the  message. 

"  And  you'd  best  choose  swords,  old  fellow,  for  Blake  is 
such  a  confounded  good  shot  that  you'd  not  stand  a  chance 
that  way,"  he  added. 

"  All  right,"  said  Hugo,  mechanically  drawing  his  wea- 
pon from  its  scabbard  and  examining  its  edge. 

At  that  time  a  sword  was  part  of  the  ordinary  dress  of 
every  gentleman,  but  Hugo's  had  till  the  present  been  orna- 
mental rather  than  useful.  He  had  grasped  the  hilt  each 
Sunday  when  the  women  courtesied  in  the  Creed,  but  the 
action  had  been  purely  mechanical.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  one  day  be  called  on  to  defend  his 
faith. 

Denham  crossed  over  once  more  with  the  decision,  then 
returned.  His  merry  face  looked  n  trifle  graver  than  usual, 
and  his  jokes  came  with  a  slight  effort. 

"  By  Heaven,  I  wish  I  could  go  in  instead  of  you!"  he  said. 
"That  hot-tempered  squire  is  as  strong  as  an  ox,  and  a 
practiced  hand,  while  you — " 

He  broke  off,  and  glanced  at  his  companion,  who  had 
thrown  aside  his  riding-cloak  and  doublet,  and  now  stood, 
straight  and  slim,  in  a  close-fitting  vest  of  dark-green  cloth, 
loose  breeches,  and  crimson  stockings,  his  ample  white 
shirt-sleeves  tied  at  the  wrist  with  bunches  of  crimson  rib- 
bon. He  seemed  ridiculously  young,  and  most  obviously 
unequal  to  his  challenger — more  fit  to  be  quietly  pouring 
over  books  in  some  library  than  preparing  for  a  duel. 

"Look  here,  old  fellow,"  said  Denham,  forcing  a  little 
merriment  into  his  voice,  which  he  was  far  from  feeling, 
"you  must  pluck  up  heart  of  grace!  If  you  go  in  as  spirit- 
less as  you  are  now  you'll  be  a  dead  man  in  five  minutes — 
and  then  you'll  be  bodiless,  which  will  be  worse.  Come, 
cheer  up.  Think  you  are  going  to  kill  him." 

Hugo  shuddered  at  the  idea. 


12  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Good  Lord !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  an  imagination  ? 
Now,  I  can  go  in  for  a  duel  and  enjoy  it.  Why  can't  you 
expect  the  best  for  once  ?" 

"  I'm  not  sure  which  is  the  best,"  said  Hugo,  reflectively. 
"However  " — smiling  a  little — "it's  waste  of  time  to  think 
of  it.  Of  course,  he's  more  than  a  match  for  me.  Seems 
odd  to  have  been  born  and  bred  for  this — to  throw  away 
one's  life  in  a  dispute.  A  waste  of  good  material! 
Though  Mr.  Newton  says  there's  no  waste  in  nature." 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  fellow  ?"  exclaimed  Denham,  al- 
most ready  to  shake  him,  and  yet  feeling  all  the  time  a  cu- 
rious sense  of  awe.  "  He's  already  begun  to  picture  him- 
self as  worms'-meat !  Thank  Heaven,  I'm  a  practical  man, 
and  not  a  visionary !  Can't  you  get  up  even  a  spice  of 
anger  to  warm  you  ?" 

Hugo  shook  his  head. 

"  Sir  Peregrine  has  anger  enough  for  the  two  of  us," 
he  said,  with  a  touch  of  humor  in  his  tone.  "  I  did  feel 
angry  when  the  girl  cried,  but  that's  all  over  now.  There  1 
time's  up.  We  must  come.  Thanks,  Denham,  for  your  help." 

They  walked  a  few  paces  in  silence,  Hugo's  eyes  invol- 
untarily turned,  not  to  his  antagonist,  but  to  his  brother. 
He  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  keenly,  then  turned  to 
Denham  with  a  sigh. 

"  If  only  Randolph  had  not  deserted  me !"  he  said,  wist- 
fully, "I  should  care  very  little  for  the  rest." 

The  seconds  spoke  a  few  words  to  each  other,  and  led  the 
way  to  the  smoothest  bit  of  turf  at  hand.  Hugo  followed 
in  a  dull,  mechanical  way.  Whether  it  were  cowardly  or 
not,  he  could  not  candidly  own  that  he  felt  anything  but 
heavy-hearted. 

To  be  compelled  to  lay  down  his  life  by  the  barbarous 
custom  of  the  time  was  not  to  him  a  very  inspiriting  thing. 

Never  before  had  the  world  seemed  so  beautiful  to  him, 
never  had  the  mere  joy  of  existence  thrilled  through  him 
as  it  did  now.  He  took  one  long,  searching  glance  all 
around.  Good-bye  to  the  blue  skies  with  their  fleecy  white 
cloudlets,  good-bye  to  the  autumn  woods,  good-bye  to 
beautiful  nature,  of  whom  he  knew  so  little  and  wanted  to 
know  so  much !  A  familiar  whinnying  sound  reminded 
him  of  his  favorite  horse;  he  turned  quickly,  and,  seeing 
that  Sir  Peregrine  was  not  quite  ready,  he  walked  to  the 
woodside  where  the  animal  was  fastened  up  to  a  silver- 
birch  tree.  Just  once  more  he  would  speak  to  his  beloved 
chestnut. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  13 

All  at  once,  as  he  caressed  the  steed,  he  became  aware 
that  at  no  great  distance,  crouched  down  among  the  thick 
bramble-bushes  within  the  wood,  there  yet  lurked  the 
pretty  girl  and  her  little  sister,  the  cause  of  all  his  trouble. 

"  Joyce !  Joyce  1"  he  heard  the  little  one  exclaim,  in  a 
loud  whisper.  "  Look  there  !" 

And  then  for  a  minute  the  sunny  brown  head  was  lifted, 
and  he  caught  a  vision  of  a  lovely,  tear-stained  face,  of 
innocent  blue  eyes  which  met  his  fully,  eyes  which  were  as 
the  windows  from  out  of  which  a  pure  soul  looked  forth. 

"  Mr.  Dryden  would  call  them  watchet  blue  1"  he  re- 
flected ;  and  then  all  at  once  there  rushed  tumultuously 
into  his  mind  the  thought  that  those  same  blue  eyes  would 
watch  the  duel,  would  perhaps  sadden  were  he  to  fall  in 
her  cause,  would  even  perchance  weep  for  him. 

What  a  curse,  what  a  shadow  to  fall  upon  so  young  and 
pure  a  life,  thus  innocently  to  have  caused  the  death  of  a 
stranger  1  What  if  he  could,  after  all,  vanquish  Sir  Pere- 
grine ?  Fight  so  well  as  to  win  the  admiration  of  sweet, 
blue-eyed  Joyce  ? 

Wonderful  vision  of  a  child-like  face  !  Wonderful  man- 
hood touched  into  life  by  the  first  appeal  to  its  protective 
power ! 

He  turned  away  and  walked  briskly  across  the  turf  to 
the  appointed  place  ;  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope,  a 
steady,  quiet  determination  took  possession  of  him.  What 
if  he  were  fighting  against  great  odds  ?  Men  had  so  fought 
before  now  and  had  conquered !  In  any  case  he  would  do 
his  best.  For  a  moment  his  heart  failed  a  little  as  he 
glanced  at  his  brother.  Well,  he  must  try  to  dismiss  that 
cold,  stern,  unsympathizing  face  from  his  thoughts,  he 
must  think  only  of  the  sweet,  anxious  face  that  would  be 
watching  him  from  the  wood. 

Sir  Peregrine  was  ready  ;  each  combatant  drew  his 
sword  ;  standing  there  face  to  face,  each  took  the  measure, 
as  it  were,  of  his  antagonist.  In  truth  they  were  a  strange 
contrast.  Sir  Peregrine,  a  man  of  great  strength,  short, 
thick-set,  bull-necked,  a  splendid  type  of  an  English  squire 
of  the  times,  and  a  man  who  had  fought  at  least  a  dozen 
duels.  Hugo,  tall,  slight,  delicate,  with  much  more  of  the 
student  than  the  duelist  about  him.  In  one  respect  only 
had  he  the  advantage.  Sir  Peregrine  was  still  in  a  tower- 
iug  passion,  his  red  face  was  many  degrees  redder  than 
usual,  his  eyes  seemed  all  ablaze.  Hugo,  on  the  other  hand, 
looked  perfectly  calm  and  self-possessed.  It  was  a  calm  far 


14  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

removed  from  the  dreamy  indifference,  the  philosophic 
serenity  which  had  hitherto  characterized  him,  the  calm  of 
strong  resolve,  full  of  power  and  dignity  because  concerned 
rather  with  the  welfare  of  others  than  with  his  own  fate. 

Then  in  that  quiet  country-side,  amid  the  soft  sighing  of 
the  autumn  wind,  and  the  faint  rustle  of  the  yellow  leaves 
as*  they  fell  to  their  last  restirg  place,  and  the  singing  of 
the  robins,  and  the  quiet  munching  of  the  horses,  there 
rose  another  sound,  the  sound  of  the  clashing  of  swords. 
In  the  wood  little  Evelyn  hid  her  face  and  trembled,  but 
Joyce  dried  her  tears  and  watched  eagerly,  anxiously.  It 
was  frightful,  and  yet  it  fascinated  her.  Would  her  "  brave 
knight,"  as  she  called  him,  conquer  that  horrible  man  who 
had  tormented  her  ?  Alas,  he  was  in  comparison  to  him 
but  as  a  reed  to  a  sturdy  oak ;  that  he  should  conquer 
seemed  barely  possible.  Joyce  had,  however,  a  firm  belief 
in  poetic  justice  ;  she  watched  hopefully. 

Fast  and  hard  fell  those  fearful  blows  ;  Hugo,  who  at 
present  was  acting  purely  on  the  defensive,  parried  them 
adroitly.  So  far  all  was  well.  The  only  question  was  how 
long  his  strength  would  hold  out.  He  was  well-taught, 
quick,  agile,  and  acquainted  with  a  few  modern  devises  of 
which  the  squire  was  ignorant,  but  there  was  no  denying 
that  they  were  very  ill-matched.  Twice  when  for  a  minute 
they  each  retired  a  few  paces,  Joyce  noticed  that  her  cham- 
pion, in  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  struggle,  was  growing 
ominously  pale,  and  when,  for  the  third  time  they  paused 
for  a  moment's  rest,  she  could  hear,  even  at  that  distance, 
how  he  was  gasping  for  breath,  could  see  how  he  leaned 
for  support  against  his  second,  who  encouraged  him  with 
words  of  warm  praise. 

But  Joyce  was  so  much  taken  up  with  watching  her 
"knight"  that  she  did  not  notice  very  critically  the  condi- 
tion of  his  opponent.  Sir  Peregrine  had  grown,  not  pale, 
but  purple,  he  was  beside  himself  with  rage,  could  scarcely 
see  clearly.  Once  more  the  two  closed  in  deadly  combat. 
The  level  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  glinted  on  the  flashing 
blades,  and  lit  up  Hugo's  white,  set  face;  exhausted,  al- 
most fainting,  he  yet  struggled  on.  But  to  act  on  the  de- 
fensive against  such  a  foe  as  Sir  Peregrine  needed  all  his 
faculties  at  their  very  best.  A  violent  thrust  in  an  unex- 
pected quarter  very  nearly  proved  his  ruin;  he  managed 
partly  to  avert  the  blow,  but  was  conscious  even  at  the 
moment  that  with  a  wound  in  his  sword-arm  he  could  not 
hold  out  much  longer.  Sir  Peregrine,  with  an  uncontroll- 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  15 

able  shot  of  triumph,  struck  wildly.  Joyce  sobbed  aloud 
but  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  that  she  might  see 
what  befell. 

Ah,  what  was  this  ?  Blood  was  dropping  slowly  to  the 
ground  from  her  champion's  right  arm  ;  but  he  had  seized 
his  sword  in  his  left  hand,  parried  Sir  Peregrine's  blow, 
taken  the  squire  utterly  by  surprise,  and,  with  the  strength 
of  despair,  made  one  more  desperate  thrust.  Sir  Pere- 
grine's sword  wavered  for  an  instant.  Joyce  could  look  no 
longer  ;  actually  to  see  which  sword  would  enter  which 
body  was  more  than  she  could  endure.  A  moment  which 
seemed  to  her  like  eternity,  then  a  fearful  oath  ringing  out 
into  the  still  air,  and  a  crash  as  of  some  one  falling  heavily 
on  the  turf.  She  looked  up  in  an  agony.  Both  the  seconds 
were  bending  over  a  prostrate  form  ;  close  by  there  stood 
— there  stood — oh  !  why  did  this  horrible  mist  come  be- 
fore her  eyes  and  blind  her  ! — yes,  it  was  indeed  her  "  brave 
knight."  He  stood  gravely  watchiDg  his  vanquished  foe 
for  a  minute,  then,  as  if  a  thought  had  suddenly  occurred 
to  him,  he  made  his  way  from  the  smooth  bit  of  turf  into 
the  wood,  as  though  searching  for  something.  Very  un- 
steady were  his  steps.  Joyce  watched  him  anxiously.  Ah, 
yes  !  it  was  as  she  had  expected.  He  had  sunk  down  ex- 
hausted among  the  thick  brushwood. 

"  Come,  Evelyn,  come  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  He  is  hurt, 
wounded !" 

Shyly  and  yet  unhesitatingly  she  made  her  way  through 
the  tangled  undergrowth  of  the  wood  ;  shyly,  but  yet  with 
gentle  graciousness,  she  stooped  over  him. 

"  Sir,  I  am  afraid  you  are  hurt,"  she  said.  "  Can  we  help 
you  in  anything  ?" 

Hugo  looked  up,  and  saw  the  sweet,  pure  face  looking 
down  on  him.  It  would  have  been  like  heaven  just  to  re- 
alize that  he  was  still  alive  and  still  near  to  those  "  watchet 
eyes,"  could  he  only  have  freed  himself  from  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  man  whom  he  had  wounded — perhaps  mortally. 

"  I  was  looking  for  water,"  he  said,  faintly.  "  I  thought 
I  heard  a  brook  hard  by." 

"  Yes,  our  brook  is  near,"  she  replied.  "  Bun,  Evelyn, 
quickly,  fetch  some  water  in  your  hat." 

The  little  child  ran  away  as  fast  as  her  legs  would  carry 
her,  snatching  off  her  large  straw  hat  as  she  went. 

"  Your  arm  is  hurt,"  said  Joyce,  clasping  his  wrist  with 
one  of  her  soft  little  hands,  and  with  the  other  gently  un- 
tying the  crimson  ribbon  which  secured  his  shirt-sleeve. 


16  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"  It  is  not  much/5  said  Hugo  ;  "  a  mere  scratch." 

But  he  could  make  no  objection  to  having  it  examined  ; 
it  was  so  sweet  to  be  treated  as  though  he  belonged  to  her, 
as  indeed,  by  right  of  her  womanhood  and  his  wound  he 
did  for  the  time. 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity  Elizabeth  is  not  here  !"  ejaculated  Joyce 
when  the  dripping  shirt-sleeve  had  been  turned  up  and  the 
wound  exposed. 

Hugo  did  not  re-echo  the  sentiment 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  smiling  a  little. 

"  Because  Elizabeth  is  so  clever,  and  she  says  my  fingers 
are  all  thumbs,"  said  Joyce,  humbly.  "  But,  indeed,  I  think 
I  can  tie  it  up  rightly,  if  you'll  trust  me." 

"  With  my  life,"  said  Hugo. 

She  took  his  handkerchief  and  tied  it  tightly  below  the 
wound,  then  she  took  her  own  and  bound  it  securely  round 
the  arm  from  wrist  to  elbow,  producing  a  funny  little  house- 
wife from  her  hanging  pocket  out  of  which,  after  a  minute's 
search  there  emerged  needle  and  thread.  With  these  she 
elaborately  stitched  up  her  bandage. 

Before  it  was  quite  finished,  Evelyn  returned  with  the 
high-crowned  hat  full  of  water. 

"There!"  she  said,  triumphantly,  holding  it  to  his  lips. 
"  Scarcely  any  is  lost." 

"Not  for  me," he  said,  still  rather  breathlessly.  "'Twas 
for  Sir  Peregrine.  Oh,  do  you  think  you  could  carry  it  to 
him  ?  He's  past  doing  any  harm  now." 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse  his  request,  but  Evelyn 
thought  she  could  exactly  sympathize  with  King  David's 
followers  when,  after  they  had  taken  so  much  trouble  to  fetch 
him  the  water,  he  poured  it  all  out  on  the  ground.  It  was 
hard  that  he  should  send  it  away,  not  using  a  single  drop. 
She  went  off,  however,  obediently,  not  much  liking  her 
errand,  but  setting  about  it  bravely,  nevertheless. 

"But  I  shall  carry  off  your  handkerchief,"  said  Hugo. 
"  Will  you  spare  it  me  as  a  keepsake  ?" 

"  'Tis  a  very  poor  one,"  said  Joyce,  "  for  you  have  done 
so  much  for  me.  And  I  fear  that  the  wound  will  be  a  dis- 
agreeable reminder  for  a  long  time." 

"  It  can't  be  disagreeable  if  it  serves  to  remind  me  of 
you,"  said  Hugo.  "  There  !  we  will  exchange  tokens  ;"  and 
he  .placed  in  her  hands  the  crimson  ribbon  which  had  tiea 
his  wristband.  "  Do  you  know  that  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
days  the  court  ladies  used  to  give  their  friends  little  hand- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  17 

kerchiefs  as  keepsakes,  and  the  men  used  to  wear  them  in 
their  hats?" 

"  No,  I  never  heard  that.   Do  they  do  that  at  court  now." 

"No,  not  now." 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  court  ?" 

"  Oh,  many  a  time." 

"How  I  should  like  to  see  it!"  said  Joyce,  with  a  child's 
eager  curiosity.  "  It  is  very,  very  fine !" 

"  Very  fine ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  there  for  the 
world." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  never  could  be  a  fit  place  for  you.  You  are 
good,  you  see." 

"Good!  Why,  no,"  said  Joyce,  opening  her  eyes  wide; 
"  I  am  not  good  at  all,  not  even  when  I  try  Damaris  says 
she  fears  I'm  not  in  a  state  of  grace." 

"I  am  sure  you  are!"  said  Hugo,  smiling. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Joyce,  with  a  sigh;  "for  I  never 
quite  understand  what  it  means.  But  I  do  hope  I'm  one 
of  the  elect,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  about  it  particularly,"  said  Hugo,  much 
amused.  "But  I've  no  objection,  if  they're  a  nice  set  of 
people !" 

Joyce  looked  so  amazed  at  this  daring  reply  that  he  half 
wished  he  had  not  made  it.  At  that  moment,  however, 
Evelyn  returned,  having  run  a  second  time  to  the  brook 
to  refill  her  hat. 

"  That  is  good  of  you '."said  Hugo,  drinking  thirstily. 
"  How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ?" 

"'Is  that  the  wounded  one  ?"  asked  Evelyn.  "  They  have 
helped  him  on  to  his  horse,  and  will  take  him  to  Mondis- 
field,  to  the  inn." 

"  Did  he  speak  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  child,  "  but  a  good  deal  of  it  I 
couldn't  understand.  I  heard  him  say,  though,  that  he 
would  be  right  enough  with  a  few  days'  rest,  and  that  he 
had  never  expected  the  young  devil  to  get  the  better  of 
him.  Is  the  devil  young,  though  ?  I  always  thought  he 
was  as  old  as  old  can  be  ?" 

Hugo  laughed  aloud  ;  even  Joyce  smiled. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  was  to  rest  there  in  the  quiet  wood,  lis- 
tening to  the  talk  of  these  two  innocent,  fresh,  country 
girls !  Should  he  ever  again  see  any  one  so  pure,  so  good, 
so  amusingly  unsophisticated  ?  What  a  gulf  lay  between 
their  world  and  his  ?  Why,  they  barely  understood  each 


18  IN    THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

other's  languages?  With  a  sigh  he  struggled  to  hia 
feet. 

"I  must  not  trouble  you  longer,"  he  said.  "  Good-bye: 
don't  quite  forget  me." 

"  We  could  never  do  that,"  s.iid  Joyce,  blushing.  "  And 
we  do  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  help." 

He  did  not  say  another  word,  but  just  raised  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  waved  a  farewell  to  little  Evelyn,  and  made  hia 
way  back  to  the  road. 

Sir  Peregrine  and  Kandolph  had  disappeared.  His  own 
horse  was  still  tied  to  the  silver-birch  tree.  Denham  had 
apparently  gone  back  for  something,  for  he  was  just  now 
appearing  round  a  curve  in  the  Newmarket  road.  The 
only  trace  of  the  eventful  afternoon  lay  in  the  trodden  and 
blood-stained  grass  by  the  wayside.  He  had  just  mounted 
when  Denham  rode  up. 

"  Where  in  the  wide  world  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?" 
he  exclaimed.  "  I've  been  hunting  high  and  low  for  you. 
Ah!  I  see.  The  fair  lady  has  been  bandaging  her  cham- 
pion's wounds.  How  now,  old  fellow !  Are  you  properly 
and  desperately  in  love  ?  The  fair  one  was — 

"  Spare  your  jests  for  once,  Denham,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low. How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  old  sinner  will  do  well  enough.  He  was  so  as- 
tonished at  being  worsted  that  he's  quite  forgiven  you — 
sung  your  praises  between  his  groans.  You  should  have 
heard  him  ;  'twould  have  melted  even  your  heart  of  stone  ?" 

Hugo  smiled. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  all  right,"  he  remarked,  with  a  look  of 
relief. 

"  Yes  ;  I  knew  you  would  have  gone  into  eternal  mourn- 
ing if  he'd  given  up  the  ghost,"  remarked  Denham.  "  You're 
too  good  for  this  wicked  world,  mine  Hugo." 

Hugo  raised  his  eyebrows,  remembering  what  he  had  felt 
like  beside  Joyce.  He  made  no  reply,  however,  and  just  at 
that  moment  there  came  a  sound  of  running  feet.  He 
glanced  round  and  reined  in  his  horse.  Evelyn  came  up 
panting. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  in  her  childish,  treble  voice,  "  'tis  only 
that  I  just  brought  you  two  of  our  apples  ;  they  are  the 
biggest  king  pippins,  very  sweet  ones. " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  19 

CHAPTER  II. 

MONDISFIELD   HALL. 

These  days  are  dangerous; 

Virtue  is  choked  by  foul  ambition 

And  charity  chased  hence  by  rancor's  hand. 

Foul  subornation  is  predominant, 

And  equity  exiled  your  Highness'  land. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

"Die  he  take  them,  Evelyn?"  asked  Joyce,  when  the  last 
glimpse  of  the  two  horsemen  had  been  hidden  by  a  bend 
in  the  road. 

"Yes,  and  seemed  pleased,"  said  Evelyn.  "There  was 
such  a  funny  man  with  him  who  called  me  a  cherub.  I 
thought  cherubs  were  in  heaven  and  devils  in  hell.  They 
seem  to  mix  us  all  up." 

"We  must  go  home,"  said  Joyce,  "and  tell  them  all 
about  it.  I  hope  mother  won't  be  vexed;  I  think  it  was  no 
fault  of  ours.  Let  us  come  by  the  road." 

They  picked  up  the  almost  forgotten  basket  of  blackber- 
ries and  walked  briskly  on  for  about  half  a  mile,  taking 
the  same  direction  followed  by  the  horsemen.  The  road 
lay  now  between  inclosed  fields — fields  which  belonged  to 
Joyce's  father.  Presently  they  reached  the  park  gate  ; 
Joyce  closed  it  belaud  them  with  a  feeling  of  relief  and 
protection  which  she  had  never  before  known,  and  in  silence 
the  two  girls  made  their  way  up  a  smooth,  well-kept  drive. 
Cattle  were  grazing  in  the  broad  grassy  avenue  sheltered 
by  the  stately  elm-trees  ;  everything  looked  orderly,  peace- 
ful and  homelike.  They  crossed  the  deep  moat  surround- 
ing the  house  by  a  drawbridge  which,  since  the  close  of  the 
civil  war,  had  been  allowed  to  remain  perpetually  down, 
and  over  which  grew  a  tangled  mass  of  ivy  and  creepers, 
then  passed  on  between  two  smooth  grass  plots,  the  larger 
of  which  was  used  for  a  bowling-green,  making  their  way 
as  fast  as  might  be  toward  the  dear  home  which,  though 
she  bad  always  loved  it,  had  never  before  seemed  to  Joyce 
so  welcome. 

It  was  a  large  three-storied  house,  washed  a  sort  of  sal- 
mon color,  which  was  relieved  by  beams  of  dark-colored 
wood,  and  by  a  dark,  tiled  roof.  There  it  stood,  and  there 
it  had  stood  since  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  though  how 
far  the  original  house  lesembled  the  present  it  was  hard  to 


20  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

say,   since    there    had    been    many    restorations,    almost 
amounting,  perhaps,  in  the  long  run,  to  rebuilding. 

"  Mother  will  be  in  the  south  parlor,"  said  Joyce.  "  Let 
us  go  there  first,  Evelyn.  Mother  will  not  be  hard  on  us, 
I  am  sure,  and  Elizabeth,  you  know,  might  be  shocked." 

As  she  spoke,  she  opened  the  heavy  front  door  which 
led  into  a  nagged  passage,  divided  by  a  wooden  screen 
from  the  large,  old-fashioDed  dining-hall  on  the  right 
hand,  while  upon  the  left  folding  doors  led  to  the  kitchen 
and  offices.  At  the  other  extreme  of  the  passage 
facing  the  front  door,  lay  the  back  entrance  leading  into 
pleasance,  and  close  to  this  was  the  door  of  the  south  parlor, 
the  coziest  room  in  all  the  house.  Here  in  the  morning 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  read  and  wrote,  while  the  mother  was 
seeing  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household  like  the  good  wife 
in  the  Proverbs.  Here  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Wharncliffe 
was  always  to  be  found  sitting  with  her  needkwoik,  and 
always  with  ample  leisure  to  hear  every  one's  troubles,  or 
to  give  counsel  in  some  preplexing  matter  which  had 
been  of  too  great  moment  to  be  decided  by  the  elder  girls. 
Here  in  the  evening  the  father  and  mother  sat  together, 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  being  too  much  of  a  recluse  to  be  able 
to  bear  the  company  of  all  six  children  at  once,  liking  them 
better  by  instalments,  or,  better  still,  singly,  when  he  could 
teach  them  or  talk  to  them  at  his  leisure. 

Very  peaceful  and  homelike  did  the  room  look  to  Joyce 
that  afternoon,  with  its  paneled  walls  and  shining  polished 
floor,  its  square  table  covered  with  the  new  Turkey  carpet, 
which  in  those  days  was  considered  far  too  good  to  tread 
upon,  and  its  stately  high-backed  chairs.  In  the  window- 
seat,  a  large  work-basket  open  before  her,  sat  Mrs.  Wharn- 
cliffe. She  looked  up  with  a  smile  as  the  two  girls  entered, 
but  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  with  a  warning  "  Hush,"  for 
her  husband  wras  reading  the  news-letter  aloud.  Written 
in  London  some  time  ago,  it  had  but  just  arrived  at  Mon- 
disfield  Hall,  having  been  read  and  reread  by  at  least  half 
a  dozen  households.  It  was  their  nearest  approach  to  a 
newspaper  in  those  rural  districts,  and  its  arrival — which 
was  usually  on  a  Wednesday,  but  varied  much  according 
to  the  punctuality  of  the  various  families  who  passed  it  on, 
and  to  the  state  of  the  weather — was  in  that  quiet  house- 
hold a  great  event. 

Evelyn  ran  up  to  her  mother  and  nestled  down  by  her 
side,  Joyce  stood  beside  her  father  listening  to  the  epitome 
of  the  week's  news.  It  somehow  interested  her  less  than 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  21 

usual.  She  could  not  feel  any  very  great  concern  on  hear- 
ing of  the  comet  which  had  been  observed  near  Cancer, 
and  which  probably  foreboded  grave  evils  to  the  state. 
She  did  not  care  about  the  progress  of  the  new  Royal  Hos- 

Eital  which  was  being  built  at  Chelsea.  Even  when  the 
jtter  went  on  to  describe  how  the  king  and  his  court  were 
amusing  themselves  at  Newmarket,  a  place  not  more  than 
ten  miles  from  Mondisfield,  she  failed  to  show  the  eager 
curiosity  which  might  have  been  expected  from  her.  Some- 
what lifelessly  the  words  fell  on  her  ears: 

"His  majesty  has  been  well  entertained  with  music. 
The  Bury  men,  the  Cambridge  men,  and  the  Thetford  men 
have  all  had  the  honor  of  performing  before  the  king, 
coming  in  their  cloaks  and  liveries  very  formally.  His 
majesty  highly  commended  them  and  bestowed  upon  each 
company  the  sum  of  two  guineas.  Her  majesty  the  queen 
has  consented  to  witness  the  performance  of  a  wonderful 
mare,  the  property  of  one  of  the  officers.  This  marvelous 
beast  will  walk  on  three  legs,  will  pick  up  a  glove  in  its 
mouth  and  give  it  to  its  master  while  he  is  upon  its  back, 
will  feign  death,  and  perform  divers  other  feats  of  skill. 
The  king  amuses  himself  much  with  hawking.  The  weath- 
er has  been  fine.  We  learn  that  Sir  George  Jeffreys  has 
been  sent  down  to  Chester  to  inquire  into  the  truth  of  the 
late  riot  in  favor  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  The  Duke  of 
Monrnouth  has,  in  consequence  of  this  riot,  been  forbidden 
to  go  to  Whitehall  or  St.  James's.  Many  of  the  Whigs  are 
extremely  indignant  that  while  their  meetings  are  prohib- 
ited as  "  Seditious"  (notably  the  great  Whig  banquet  which 
was  to  have  been  holden  on  the  21st  of  April  in  this  year, 
which,  as  our  readers  will  remember,  was  riot  permitted  to 
take  place,  constables  being  at  their  posts,  and  even  the 
militia  under  arms  to  give  due  force  to  the  prohibition), 
yet  the  Tory  meetings  are  all  connived  at.  The  influence 
of  the  Duke  of  York  increaseth  daily." 

"  Does  a  comet  tell  troubles  coming,  father  ?"  asked  little 
Evelyn. 

"  It  does  not  need  a  comet,  my  child,  to  foretell  trouble 
to  this  nation,"  replied  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "  God  only 
knows  what  the  end  of  it  will  be." 

"  We  have  something  to  tell  you,  mother,"  said  Joyce,  a 
little  tremulously,  and  then,  helped  out  by  Evelyn,  she  told 
faithfully  all  that  had  happened  to  them  that  afternoon. 


22  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Both  parents  were  more  concerned  than  they  cared  to  ap- 
pear, but  they  thought  it  expedient  not  to  make  too  much 
of  it  before  Joyce. 

"  Probably  they  were  a  set  of  gallants  coming  back  from 
Newmarket,"  said  Colonel  Wkarncliffe.  "It  must  have 
given  you  a  sad  fright,  my  little  Joy.  Don't  go  outside 
the  ground  again  without  either  Tabitha  or  some  of  your 
sisters." 

"I  think  they  must  have  been  courtiers,"  said  Joyce. 
"At  least  our  knight  said  he  had  been  to  the  court  often." 

"  Any  gentleman  can  go  to  the  court — he  need  not  neces- 
sarily be  a  courtier.  What  did  he  s&y  to  you  about  it  ?" 

"  I  asked  him  what  it  was  like,  and  he  said  he  wouldn't 
have  me  there  for  the  world — I  think  because  it  was  a 
wicked  place.  Is  it  wicked,  father  ?" 

"  A  hell  on  earth  !"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  speaking  so 
much  more  vehemently  than  usual  that  Joyce  was  almost 
frightened.  "  A  hell  on  earth,  my  child !  I  would  sooner 
see  you  in  your  coffin  than  at  Whitehall." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  names  of  any  of  the  gentlemen  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Wharncliffe. 

"  Only  of  the  bad  one  who  was  conquered  ;  he  was  Sir 
Peregrine — we  didn't  hear  his  surname.  They  were  going 
to  take  him  to  the  White  Horse." 

"  Well,  do  not  trouble  your  little  heads  any  more  about 
them.  Only  remember  not  to  go  alone  again  into  the 
lanes." 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  sighed  Evelyn.  "  And  the  very  best  black- 
berries do  grow  there.  What  a  sad  pity,  Joyce,  that  your 
face  is  so  very  pretty,  and  that  the  bad  man  told  you 
so." 

Colonel  Wham  clifte  stroked  his  mustache  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  Is  my  face  pretty,  father  ?"  asked  Joyce,  lifting  her 
blue  eyes  to  his  in  grave  and  earnest  inquiry. 

It  was  against  all  his  principles  to  tell  her  the  truth  in 
this  case. 

"  That,  my  little  Joy,  is  a  matter  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself  about,"  he  said.  "  Eun  and  look  in  the  last  chapter 
of  the  Proverbs,  and  see  what  King  Solomon  said  about 
beauty." 

Joyce  went  without  another  word,  flew  through  the  long 
hall  to  the  north  parlor,  the  room  which  was  used  as  the 
general  family  sitting-room,  and,  disregarding  her  sisters, 
ran  up  to  a  small  book-case  and  took  down  the  family 
Bible.  Ah !  here  was  the  verse  : 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  23 

"Favor  is  deceitful  and  beauty  is  vain  :  but  a  woman 
that  feareth  the  Lord,  she  shall  be  praised." 

Did  that  .answer  her  question  ?  She  went  and  stood  in 
front  of  a  sloping  glass  which  hung  between  the  two  win- 
dows, and  looked  at  herself  critically.  She  knew  that  if  it 
had  been  a  picture  instead  of  a  reflection,  she  should  have 
thought  it  rather  nice.  And  yet  the  Bible  said  that 
"  beauty  "  was  "  vain." 

"  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  half  turning  round,  "  what  does 
'vain'  mean  ?" 

"  Looking  in  the  glass,"  said  Robina,  the  youngest  but 
one,  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  turning  the  laugh 
against  Joyce. 

"  I  mean  here,"  said  Joyce,  coloring  and  showing  the 
words  to  her  eldest  sister. 

Elizabeth  read  them  and  thought  for  a  minute. 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  interposed  Damaris,  a  tall,  pretty-look- 
ing girl  of  nineteen.  "  It  conies  from  the  Latin  vanus — 
empty.  Now,  Betty,  allow  that  there  is  some  good  in  learn- 
ing Latin." 

"  How  can  it  be  empty,"  said  Joyce,  looking  puzzled. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  wise  Elizabeth,  with  that  slow,  sure 
judgment  of  hers  which  made  her  the  referee  of  the  family 
— "  I  suppose  it  means  that  beauty  is  only  like  the  shell  of 
a  thing,  and  if  it  is  empty,  is  of  little  worth.  I  suppose  it 
ought  to  be  just  the  outside  covering  of  all  that  is  really 
good." 

Joyce  sighed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everything  harped 
round  to  that  one  theme,  that  one  supreme  difficulty — being 
good.  And  she  was  not  good,  though  her  knight  had 
thought  her  so. 

"  Shells  don't  get  full  of  water  by  lying  on  the  beach  and 
thinking  how  empty  they  are,"  said  Frances,  the  third  sis- 
ter, looking  up  from  her  embroidery.  "  They  must  let  the 
great  sea  rush  over  them." 

Frances  had  a  way  of  saying  things  in  parables  which 
always  appealed  to  Joyce's  ready  imagination;  she  went  up 
to  her  room  thinking. 

"Shall  you  send  down  to  the  White  Horse?"  said  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe  to  her  husband,  when  the  children  had  left  the 
south  parlor.  "  I  should  like  to  know  who  these  gentlemen 
are." 

"The  mischief-maker  must  be  Sir  Peregrine  Blake,"  re- 
plied her  husband.  "  I  recognized  him  at  once  from  the 
child's  description." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"What,  Sir  Peregrine  Blake,  the  magistrate?" 

"  Ay,  more  shame  to  him.  He's  a  bad  man,  and  a  dan- 
gerous neighbor  for  me.  I'm  thankful  there  are  a  dozen 
miles  between  the  houses." 

"  That  youth  must  have  been  a  noble  fellow.  I  should 
like  to  know  who  he  is." 

"  Yes,  'tis  no  light  thing  for  one  moving  in  such  a  set  to 
own  to  keeping  a  conscience.  He  must  expect  hard  times. 
I  would  gladly  go  myself  and  see  him,  aye,  and  thank  him 
heartily;  but  to-night  I  dare  not  risk  it.  I  expect  Ferguson 
and  two  others." 

"  Will  they  stop  here  ?"  asked  his  wife. 

"  No,  they  will  ride  over  quite  late.  I  shall  admit  them 
myself,  and  they  will  all  be  gone  again  before  the  household 
is  astir.  The  servants  must  not  know  anything  of  it,  I 
can't  trust  their  tongues." 

"  Is  there  indeed  need  of  all  this  secrecy  ?" 

"  The  utmost  need.  Even  the  quietest  meeting  of  friends 
to  discuss  the  future  of  this  unhappy  nation  may  be  counted 
treasonable  in  these  days.  Were  any  of  my  enemies  to  get 
wind  of  it  I  might  be  in  great  peril.  To  such  a  pass  has 
'Free  Eagland  '  corne  1" 

He  sighed  heavily. 

"  But  can  you  do  any  good  by  these  discussions  ?"  said 
his  wife. 

"Who  can  say!"  he  replied,  mournfully.  "But  so  long 
as  the  people  are  denied  their  rightful  share  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country,  so  long  will  there  be  private  confer- 
ences between  those  who  love  justice  and  hate  despotism." 

"Bat  you  would  not  lend  yourself  to  any  rising  in  favor 
of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ?"  * 

"In  the  present  state  of  affairs,  certainly  not,"  he  replied. 
"Insurrection  is  only  justifiable  when  there  is  a  fair  chance 
of  success,  and  of  that,  at  present,  there  is  none.  The  peo- 
ple at  large  have  not  yet  perceived  how  fast  the  king  is 
robbing  them  of  their  liberties." 

"  But  this  Mr.  Ferguson  they  say  is  much  with  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth.  Is  it  well  to  have  him  coming  here  ?" 

I  have  no  great  liking  for  him,"  replied  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe.  "  He  is  one  who  likes  intrigue  for  its  own  sake. 
But  he  is  everywhere  and  in  everything,  and  is  a  bold  pur- 
veyor of  news.  You  see,  dear  heart,  living  in  this  quiet 
countryside,  one  needs  a  better  and  more  trustworthy 
news-bringer  than  such  letters  as  these."  He  indicated  the 
news-letter  which  he  had  just  read. 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  25 

"  Not  content  with  so  full  an  account  as  that !"  exclaimed 
his  wife. 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  have  a  vision  of  what  a 
free  press  in  a  free  country  will  some  day  prove,  and  as  yet 
I  can  be  by  no  means  content.  'Tis  by  the  discontent  of 
the  few  that  the  many  are  at  last  awakened,  you  know." 

She  sighed.  If  only  this  discontent,  this  noble  discontent, 
did  not  lead  him  into  danger !  But  the  times  were  evil, 
and  she  knew  that  both  his  religious  and  political  views  ren- 
dered him  an  object  of  dislike  and  suspicion  to  the  domi- 
nant rjarty. 

CHAPTER  III. 

OVERLOOKED. 

If  thou  ask  me  why,  sufficeth,  my  reasons 
Are  both  good  and  weighty. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

"  UNDERSTAND,  once  for  all,  that  I  expect  implicit  obedi- 
ence, and,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  that  I  will  have  it. 
You  have  behaved  like  an  unruly  child,  and  I  shall  treat 
you  as  such !" 

Hugo  did  not  notice  the  astonished  face  of  the  landlady 
of  the  White  Horse,  as  they  passed  her  on  the  stairs,  nor 
the  terrified  look  of  the  country  girl  who  showed  them 
which  room  was  vacant.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  other 
people  could  possibly  be  frightened  by  the  violent  manner 
and  the  harsh  voice  to  which  he  had  from  his  childhood 
been  accustomed.  Randolph  was  extremely  angry.  He 
regretted  it,  was  troubled  by  it.  It  pained  him  to  have  an- 
noyed his  brother,  whom  he  worshiped  to  a  degree  almost 
inconceivable,  considering  the  way  in  which  he  was  treated 
by  him.  But  then,  had  he  not  expected  this  all  along  ? 
Had  he  not  known  quite  well  what  the  manner  of  his  greet- 
ing would  be  ?  He  accepted  it  as  inevitable,  and,  indeed, 
was  so  well  prepared  for  the  violent  push  which  hastened 
his  entrance,  that,  instead  of  measuring  his  length  on  the 
floor  of  the  bedroom,  he  merely  entered  somewhat  quickly, 
having  calculated  the  precise  moment  when  passive  resist- 
ance, concentrated  in  his  shoulders,  would  avail  him. 

The  door  WAS  sharply  closed,  and  locked  from  the  out- 
side, which,  as  Hugo  was  quite  well  aware,  meant  for  him 
a  dismal  evening  without  lights  or  cupper.  It  was  cer- 


26  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

tainly  a  little  ignominious,  a  tame  ending  to  the  day  on 
which  he  had  fought  his  first  duel,  and  \vorsted  a  Suffolk 
magistrate  old  enough  to  be  his  father.  But  then  Hugo 
did  not  at  present  keenly  feel  humiliations  of  this  sort  ;  he 
was  too  quiet,  too  much  wanting  in  self-assertion,  too  slow 
to  think  of  his  own  rights,  too  ready  to  acquiesce  in  the 
stronger  will  which  had  hitherto,  whether  for  good  or  for 
evil,  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Resistance  would  have 
been  a  trouble — had  been  a  grievous  trouble  that  day. 
And  Hugo  loved  peace  of  all  things,  hated  strife  and  con- 
tention, hated  any  kind  of  noise  ;  he  would  have  liked  to 
please  all  parties,  or,  still  better,  to  be  left  in  unmolested 
quiet  with  books  instead  of  people. 

To-day,  however,  a  strange  and  unforseen  disturbance 
had  occurred  in  the  even  tenor  of  his  quiet  existence  ; 
whether  he  could  ever  again  settle  down  to  the  old,  peace- 
ful yielding  indifference  was  a  question. 

With  characteristic  coolness  he  proceeded  to  examine  his 
temporary  prison  with  a  view  to  making  the  most  of  its 
advantages.  It  was  a  good-sized  room ;  the  floor  was 
cleaned  and  well  scrubbed,  the  oaken  chairs  were  good  of 
their  kind,  the  four-post  bed  was  hung  with  gay,  red  cur- 
tains, while  the  walls  were  covered  with  tapestry  *  represent- 
ing scenes  from  Scripture  history.  On  the  whole,  the  room 
was  a  good  deal  more  comfortable  than  his  own  gloomy  lit- 
tle chamber  in  the  Temple.  It  had  not  been  used  lately, 
however,  and  was  stuffy  in  the  extreme.  He  crossed  over 
to  the  casement- window,  and  flung  it  open,  pausing  to  take 
a  look  at  the  village.  Mondisfield  was  a  fairly  large  parish, 
but  the  houses  were  scattered,  and  there  was  nothing  that 
could  be  called  a  village  street.  The  inn  seemed  an  extra- 
ordinary good  one  for  such  a  place.  But  in  those  days 
English  inns  were  celebrated,  and  did  their  best  to  make 
up  for  the  badness  of  the  roads  and  the  discomforts  of  slow 
traveling.  Exactly  opposite  stood  the  church,  with  its 
square,  gray  tower,  while  the  cows  grazing  in  an  adjoining 
field  all  stood  with  their  heads  towards  the  setting  sun, 
which  threw  a  ruddy  glow  over  the  peaceful  scene. 

"'Twill  soon  be  dark,"  reflected  philosophic  Hugo.  "I 
may  as  well  read  while  I  can." 

And,  taking  a  small  book  from  his  pocket,  he  stretched 
himself  comfortably  on  the  window-seat  and  was  soon 
oblivious  of  all  around  him. 

The  room  was  growing  dusk,  and  the  evening  air  blew 
in  coldly.  Hugo  read  peacefully  on,  however,  until  a  hand- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  27 

ful  of  gravel  was  flung  against  the  window,  some  of  winch 
fell  right  in  and  alighted  upon  his  book. 

"Denham,"  he  said  to  himself.     "  How  exactly  like  him." 

He  sprung  up  and  looked  out. 

There  stood  his  merry-faced  companion. 

"I've  been  trying  to  come  this  half  hour,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  but  your  brother  would  stand  ranting  by  the 
window  down  below.  They've  drawn  the  curtain,  and  put 
up  the  shutter  now,  so  all's  safe." 

"  How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ?"  asked  Hugo. 

"  Oh,  well  enough.  There  isn't  a  leech  to  be  found  nearer 
than  St.  Edmondsbury,  so  he'll  have  to  bide  his  time.  Don't 
trouble  your  foolish  pate  about  him — letting  blood  is  the 
best  cure  for  a  hot  temper.  Look  here !  I  forgot  to  give  you 
your  precious  herbs.  Catch !" 

And,  so  saying,  .he  threw  up  the  bundle  of  specimens 
which  Randolph  had  snatched  from  the  saddle-bow  that 
afternoon. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  get  them?"  asked  Hugo, 
looking  much  pleased. 

"  Went  back  while  your  lady-love  was  bandaging  your 
wound,  and  looking  for  you,  lighted  by  chance  upon  these. 
I  say,  aren't  you  hungry  ?" 

" Awfully,"  returned  Hugo.  "I  didn't  know  duelling 
would  be  such  appetizing  work." 

"  There's  a  glorious  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon  making  ready; 
do  you  think  I  could  pitch  it  up  to  you." 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  laughing.  "And  I  wish  you'd  go,  old 
fellow;  Randolph  would  be  furious  if  he  caught  you." 

"That  for  Randolph !"  said  Denham,  with  a  contempt- 
uous snap  of  the  fingers.  "Sha'n't  I  throw  you  up  some 
bread?" 

"  No,  no,  I  shall  do  well  enough.  I'm  dog  tired,  and  shall 
go  to  sleep.  There,  I  shut  up  shop,  you  see!  Good  night!" 
and  suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  he  closed  the  casement, 
and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  the  incautious 
Denham  return  to  the  inn  parlor. 

It  was  something  to  have  regained  his  specimens,  though 
it  was  too  dark  to  do  anything  with  them  now.  What  a  pity 
Denham  had  reminded  him  how  hungry  he  was !  And 
why  should  the  smell  of  a  savory  supper  in  preparation 
rouse  such  uncomfortable  cravings  in  one's  inner  man  ? 
True,  he  had  tasted  nothing  since  they  had  left  Newmarket, 
and  had  since  then  gone  through  much.  Ah,  by  the  bye, 
he  had  at  any  rate  little  Evelyn's  king-pippins.  Having  de- 


28  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

voured  these  hungrily  enough  he  made  his  preparations  for 
the  night,  then,  in  gathering  gloom,  knelt  reverently  while 
reciting  the  Lord's  Prayer  at  a  pace  which  was  truly  surpris- 
ing. This  was  a  ceremony  which  nothing  would  have  in- 
duced him  to  give  up  ;  it  did  not  convey  very  much  to  him, 
and  yet  the  mere  physical  act  did  in  a  vague  way  meet  a 
scarcely  conscious  demand  for  worship  in  his  heart. 

Just  as  he  was  falling  asleep,  a  question  flashed  across 
his  mind — Would  the  good  Sir  Hugo,  his  ancestor  and 
ideal,  have  approved  his  conduct  that  afternoon?  This 
brave  German  knight  had  from  his  very  childhood  been 
his  hero  ;  he  felt  it  a  sort  of  responsibility  to  have  been  ac- 
tually named  after  him,  and  rejoiced  that  his  father  had  not 
modernized  him  into  Hugh.  To  be  in  ever  so  slight  a  de- 
gree like  this  ancestor  had  always  been  his  ambition.  How 
would  he  have  reconciled  the  conflicting  duties  of  obedi- 
ence and  honesty?  Would  he  have  obeyed  the  lawful 
authority  or  the  inner  voice  ? 

Meanwhile,  in  the  room  below,  Randolph  and  Denham 
were  making  a  hearty  meal.  Neither  the  thought  of  Sir 
Peregrine  groaning  in  the  best  bedchamber,  nor  the  recol- 
lection of  Hugo  supperless  and  weary,  could  in  the  least 
interfere  with  their  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  excellent  sup- 
per provided  by  the  smiling  landlady.  Nor  was  Denham 
at  all  anxious  to  quarrel  with  his  companion,  though  he 
thought  his  treatment  of  Hugo  unjust  in  the  extreme. 

Bather  he  sought  to  make  him  enjoy  himself,  hoping  to 
improve  his  temper,  and  to  render  some  service  to  his  friend 
in  this  way.  It  was  Eandolph  himself  who  first  mentioned 
the  duel. 

"I  confess," he  said,  at  length,  "that,  apart  from  his  dis- 
obedience, which  I  shall  not  readily  pardon,  I  don't  alto- 
gether regret  what  happened.  Hugo  showed  himself  more 
of  a  man  than  I  expected.  It  has  done  him  a  world  of  good 
to  be  with  you." 

Denham  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It's  a  case  of  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,"  he  said, 
refilling  his  huge  tankard  with  the  excellent  home-brewed 
ale. *  "  Now  if  you  were  to  ask  my  people,  they  would  say 
that  Hugo  was  more  likely  to  better  me  than  I  to  better 
him." 

"  Opinions  differ,"  said  Randolph,  dryly.  "With  all  due 
deference  to  Sir  William  Denham,  I  am  not  anxious  that 
Hugo  should  turn  into  a  scientific  hermit.  That  sort  of 
thing  is  well  enough  when  a  man's  past  fifty.  But  I've 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  29 

other  views  for  the  boy;  I  wish  him  to  make  his  way  at 
court." 

"  I'll  lay  you  any  wa^ger  you  like  that  he'll  never  do  it," 
said  Denham.  "  For  all  his  fine  voice  and  his  handsome 
face,  there's  that  in  him  which  will  never  do  for  Wiute- 
hall." 

"  How  can  you  tell  what's  in  him?  Why,  we  none  of  us 
thought  it  was  in  him  to  act  as  he  acted  to-day — he  who 
was  ever  one  to  give  the  wall  and  take  the  gutter." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  know  him  better  than  I;  but,  for  all 
that,  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  to  one  that  you'll  prove  wrong 
and  I  shall  prove  right.  Come,  will  you  take  it?  We'll 
sup  together  after  the  next  autumn  races,  and  see  what  the 
year  has  brought  forth." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Bandolph.  "  But  you  must  in  no  way  in- 
fluence him  against  my  wishes." 

"  Certainly  not;  I  would  far  rather  see  him  high  in  the 
king's  favor.  "Tis  always  well  to  have  a  friend  at  court, 
and,  as  you  say,  it  is  a  shame  that  with  his  talents  he  should 
not  make  his  way  in  the  world." 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  the  landlord  of  the 
White  Horse  ushered  in  a  traveler  who  had  just  arrived. 

"  They  will  shoe  the  horse,  sir,  as  quickly  as  may  be  ; 
but  it  is  already  late,  the  roads  will  be  dangerous,  and,  if 
your  honor  will  stay  the  night  you  shall  have  every  com- 
fort," 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  stay  the  night,"  said  the  new-comer, 
in  a  harsh  and  most  unprepossessing  voice.  "I've  other 
things  to  do  than  to  sit  by  inn  fires  drinking  ale,  I  can  tell 
you." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  contempt  and  boastfulness  in  his 
tone  and  manner  which  angered  the  landlord.  He  was  de- 
termined to  press  his  hospitalities  no  further,  and  abruptly 
left  the  room,  giving  the  blacksmith  a  private  hint  that  he 
need  not  hurry  himself  over  the  traveler's  horse,  for  he 
was  the  sourest  cur  that  had  ever  darkened  his  doors. 
Left  to  shift  for  himself  the  new  guest  approached  the  fire 
of  which  he  had  spoken  so  disdainfully,  bowed  stiflly  to  the 
two  gentlemen,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  cold  evening. 

Denham,  ever  ready  to  talk,  endeavored  to  draw  him  into 
the  conversation ;  but  the  stranger  seemed  not  at  al] 
anxious  to  cultivate  their  acquaintance,  and  before  long 
produced  a  shagreen  pocket-book,  in  the  contents  of  which 
he  appeared  to  become  absorbed. 

Bandolph  watched  him  furtively,  yet  keenly.     Surely  it 


30  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

was  a  face  he  knew !  Buddy  and  ill-favored,  with  lantern 
jaws  and  restless,  carious  eyes,  a  face  which  for  its  very 
hideousness  lingered  in  one's  meinory.  It  was  clever,  un- 
doubtedly, and  bold  ;  but  the  boldness  bordered  on  rash- 
ness, and  the  cleverness  was  overshadowed  by  the  owner's 
intense  self -consciousness  and  air  of  importance.  Who  in 
the  world  could  he  be  ?  And  where  had  they  met  ?  Ah  ! 
at  last  he  remembered.  He  had  never  met  the  fellow,  but 
he  had  read  such  a  minute,  such  a  graphic  description  of 
him,  that  not  to  recognize  him  would  have  been  impossible. 
Ha  was  Ferguson,  the  Presbyterian,  the  mysterious  man 
who  was  mixed  up  with  all  kinds  of  conspiracies,  who  was 
al \vays  suspected  of  being  involved  in  half  a  dozen  plots, 
wliose  personality  was  known  to  every  one,  and  who  always 
managed,  by  extraordinary  good-fortune,  to  be  at  large.  It 
was  currently  reported  that  he  bore  a  charmed  life,  and  in- 
deed his  hair-breadth  escapes  were  often  almost  miracu- 
lous. Where  could  he  be  going  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he 
was  going  to  see  Colonel  Wharncliffe  ?  At  all  hazards  he 
must  find  out.  But  he  knew  better  than  to  risk  a  direct 
question.  It  was  not  until  Denham  had  drunk  himself 
stupid,  and  the  landlord  had  returned  to  announce  that  the 
stranger's  horse  was  at  the  door,  that  he  took  any  definite 
action.  He  quietly  left  the  room  then,  took  his  hat  and 
cloak  from  a  stand  in  the  passage  and  made  his  way  into 
the  dark  road. 

"  Who  are  those  two  gentlemen  ?"  asked  Ferguson,  turn- 
ing to  the  landlord  as  they  emerged  into  the  passage. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  inform  you,  sir,"  replied  that  worthy, 
much  pleased  that  he  was  really  unable  to  give  the  desired 
information  to  his  disagreeable  guest.  "They  are  but 
passive  travelers  just  come  to-day  from  Newmarket." 

Ferguson  made  no  comment,  but,  mounting  his  horse, 
bade  his  host  good-night,  and  rode  off.  When  he  had 
heard  the  inn  door  close  he  reined  in  his  horse  for  a 
minute  and  looked  round.  A  small  boy  was  passing  by  ; 
he  hailed  him. 

"Which  is  the  way  to  Mondisfield  Hall?"  he  asked,  in  a 
slightly  lowered  voice. 

"  Bight  on,"  replied  the  urchin.  "  Over  the  brook  yon- 
der till  ye  come  to  the  cross-roads,  then  to  the  right  till  ye 
come  to  the  park  gate  on  the  left." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"  A  matter  of  two  miles,"  replied  the  boy,  touching  his 
hat  as  the  stranger  thanked  him  and  rode  on. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  31 

When  he  was  well  out  of  ear-shot  Kandolph  calmly 
emerged  from  behind  the  church-yard  wall,  and,  striding 
irreverently  over  the  grassy  mounds,  made  his  way  back  to 
the  road. 

"  First  to  get  Denham  settled,"  he  said  to  himself. 

And  in  a  matter-of-fact  business-like  way  he  walked  into 
the  parlor,  coolly  assured  his  drowsy  companion  that  it  was 
very  late,  and  that  he  must  go  up  to  bed,  saw  him  safely 
upstairs,  and  then  with  equal  coolness  and  precision  drew 
the  key  of  Hugo's  prison  from  his  pocket,  fitted  it  with 
some  difficulty  iu  the  clumsy  lock,  and  quietly  admitted 
himself  into  the  room.  He  had  not  expected  to  find  Hugo 
in  bed,  still  less  to  find  him  asleep,  for  it  was  not  nearly  so 
late  as  he  had  represented  to  Denham.  Drawing  aside  the 
red  curtains,  he  looked  down  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
impatience  and  anxiety  at  his  brother.  He  was  fond  of  the 
lad  in  spite  of  his  austerity,  and  Hugo  looked  so  weary, 
yet  so  comfortable,  that  he  was  loath  to  disturb  him.  But 
Kandolph  was  not  the  man  to  deny  himself  in  any  way. 
Hugo  was  the  only  available  helper,  Sir  Peregrine  being 
wounded  and  Denham  far  from  sober;  moreover,  he  could 
trust  his  brother  as  he  could  trust  no  other  living  soul. 

"Wake  up!"  he  said,  authoritatively,  shaking  him  with 
one  hand,  and  holding  the  candle  close  to  his  face  with  the 
other. 

Hugo  started  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  sleepily. 

"  Put  on  your  things  and  come  out  with  me,"  said  Ran- 
dolph, concisely. 

There  was  no  need  to  say  "  Be  quick  !"  for  Hugo  was  up 
before  he  could  have  spoken  the  words,  showing  no  trace 
of  ill-temper  at  being  thus  roused,  strangling  his  yawns 
while  he  dressed,  half-asleep,  but,  as  usual,  promptly  and 
unquestioningly  obedient. 

Not  a  word  passed  between  the  two  brothers,  they  were 
never  a  talkative  pair,  and  Hugo  know  tbat  be  was  still  in 
disgrace  and  would  not  have  presumed  to  speak  before  he 
was  spoken  to.  Kandolph  watched  him  with  a  certain  ad- 
miration, he  was  so  quick,  so  well  trained,  so  wonderfully 
loyal.  In  a  very  few  minutes  he  was  ready  and  the  two 
went  down-stairs,  Hugo  much  wondering  what  was  about 
to  happen,  and  half  fearing  tbat  Sir  Peregrine  must  have 
died.  A  question  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  he  would  not 
put  it,  only  when  they  met  the  landlord  down  below  iu 
the  passage  he  listened  eagerly  for  Randolph's  explanation. 


32  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  We  shall  be  out  for  a  time,  don't  lock  up  till  we  re- 
turn." !-:-W-:3 

"  Certainly,  you  honor,"  said  the  host,  bowing  obsequi- 
ously. "  'Tis  a  fine  night,  gentlemen,  but  cold." 

He  opened  the  door  for  them,  Randolph  pausing  for  a 
minute  to  light  his  pipe,  then  strolling  out  leisurely  as 
though  he  were  merely  going  to  take  an  evening  ramble. 
"When  they  had  gone  a  few  hundred  yards,  however,  he  sud- 
denly quickened  his  pace,  walking  so  fast  indeed  that  Hugo 
had  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  up  with  him.  Where 
could  they  be  going  ?  The  night  was  dark  and  cloudy 
enough  to  make  walking  along  the  rough  roads  no  easy 
matter  ;  they  hailed  the  light  which  yet  lingered  in  a  lew 
of  the  way  side  cottages.  Ah,  here  was  the  brook  which  he 
and  Denham  had  forded  on  horseback  that  afternoon.  It 
flowed  right  across  the  road,  but  there  was  a  narrow  plank 
at  the  side  for  foot  passengers.  They  crossed  this,  and 
walked  on  in  silence  to  the  cross-roads.  With  great  curi- 
osity Hugo  waited  to  see  which  turn  they  should  take. 

"  Eight  wheel !"  said  Randolph,  shortly,  and  they  mounted 
the  slight  hill. 

Was  he,  perhaps,  going  to  the  scene  of  the  duel  ?  And 
if  so,  why  ?  Randolph  cleared  his  throat.  Was  an  expla- 
nation at  last  coming  ? 

"  I  have  brought  you  with  me  to-night,  Hugo,"  he  began, 
"because  you  are  one  of  the  few  people  whom  I  can  in  all 
things  trust." 

Hugo's  heart  beat  quickly.  This  from  Randolph  was 
indeed  high  praise. 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  your  behavior  this  after- 
noon. For  this  once  I  overlook  it.  What  is  more,  I  now 
give  you  an  opportunity  of  proving  your  loyalty  tome." 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Hugo,  unable  to 
keep  the  question  back  any  longer. 

"  That  is  at  present  no  concern  of  yours.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  I  hope  to-night's  work  will  be  useful  both  to  you  and 
me,  and — what  is  of  more  importance — to  the  king  himself. 
Now,  can  I  depend  upon  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo,  eagerly. 

"  This  is  all  I  ask  of  you,"  continued  Randolph.  "  Ob- 
serve, remember,  and  hold  your  tongue  till  I  bid  you 
speak." 

"I  will,"  said  Hugo,  inwardly  wondering  what  Randolph 
had  in  hand. 

Again  they  walked  on  in  silence,  picking  their  way  as 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  33 

best  they  could  among  the  ruts.  At  length  they  reached 
the  gate  which  led  to  Mondisfield  Hall.  Eandolph  softly 
opened  it,  cautiously  closed  it.  They  stood  within  the  park, 
and,  with  something  of  awe,  Hugo  glanced  around.  It  was 
all  so  solemn  and  still.  The  broad  avenue,  within  its  grassy 
glades  and  its  giant  elms,  looked  like  the  nave  of  some 
vast  cathedral ;  the  night  wind  sighed  and  moaned.  Hugo 
shivered.  Somehow  a  feeling  of  unconquerable  distaste, 
even  of  dread,  arose  within  him.  To  what  had  he  pledged 
himself?  What  was  this  mysterious  work  which  was  to 
benefit  the  king  ?  As  he  mused,  Randolph  turned. 

"  Tread  lightly,  and  don't  so  much  as  whisper.  Merely 
follow  me." 

"What  was  this  work  which  could  lead  his  brother  to  steal 
like  a  thief  toward  an  unknown  dwelling  ?  Well,  he  was  in 
for  it  now,  and  there  could  be  no  turning  back. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  moat,  and  were  within 
easy  sight  of  the  house.  There  was  no  very  great  risk  of 
being  seen,  for  the  night  was  cloudy.  Randolph  bent 
almost  double,  however,  as  they  crossed  the  draw-bridge, 
nor  did  he  venture  to  walk  upright  till  they  had  reached 
the  comparative  shelter  of  the  high  hedge  overshadowed 
by  stately  fir-trees  which  bordered  the  lesser  of  the  two 
lawns.  Stealthily,  almost  noiselessly,  they  crept  on,  Ean- 
dolph keenly  anxious,  Hugo  utterly  miserable.  His  whole 
nature  rose  up  against  this  mysterious  work,  whatever  it 
might  be.  To  observe,  to  remember,  and  to  hold  his  tongue  I 
Well,  he  could  hardly  help  keeping  the  first  two  injunctions; 
naturally  his  eyes  were  sharply  watchful  at  such  a  time,  nor 
was  he  likely  to  forget  anything  which  might  come  under 
his  notice  in  this  objectionable  way.  Most  assuredly,  also, 
he  was  not  likely  to  mention  to  any  living  soul  a  proceeding 
which  even  now,  dimly  as  he  understood  it,  caused  him 
such  shame. 

Softly  Randolph  approached  the  window  on  the  left  to 
the  door,  crept  in  among  the  bushes  which  surrounded  it, 
looked  and  listened.  There  was  neither  a  sound  nor  a  ray 
of  light.  He  emerged  from  the  shrubs,  and  led  the  vray 
past  the  great  door,  over  the  smooth  approach,  to  the 
grassy  terrace  beyond.  There  were  no  more  shrubs  now, 
nor  even  a  border  to  betray  their  foot-marks  ;  the  grass 
grew  to  the  very  wall,  and,  what  was  better,  the  next 
window  was  protected  neither  by  curtain  nor  shutter.  It 
was  somewhat  high  from  the  ground,  but  on  a  convenient 
level  for  their  eyes.  With  much  curiosity,  Hugo  looked  in. 


34  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

He  saw,  in  the  dim  light,  a  large  wainscoted  hall,  set  round 
with  stately  old  furniture.  As  far  as  he  could  make  out, 
there  was  the  usual  minstrel's  gallery  at  one  end,  but  at 
the  opposite  end,  both  he  and  his  brother  instantly  per- 
ceived that  rays  of  light  were  streaming  through  the  cracks 
in  a  door-way  which  apparently  led  to  some  other  room. 
Kandolph  beckoned  to  him  to  come  on.  A  second  huge 
window  looked  into  the  same  hall,  then  the  outer  wall  pro- 
jected a  little,  and  there  were  two  more  windows,  much 
narrower  and  much  nearer  the  ground.  This  was  clearly 
the  room  from  which  the  light  had  proceeded ;  and  now, 
indeed,  drawing  quite  close,  they  could  see  that  light 
streamed  through  two  large  cracks  in  the  window-shutter 
as  well,  and,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  could  detect  a  low 
hum  of  voices.  Noiselessly  they  both  crept  close  to  the 
glass,  so  close,  indeed,  that  their  eyelashes  actually  brushed 
the  panes. 

The  whole  of  the  room  was  distinctly  visible  to  each.  It 
was  a  large,  long  room,  wainscoted  in  a  sort  of  yellow- 
brown  color,  and  hung  with  oil  paintings,  evidently  por- 
traits of  the  family.  The  fire  had  burned  low;  on  the  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  a  lamp,  and  at  one  end  the 
remains  of  supper.  At  the  opposite  end,  facing  the  win- 
dows, sat  four  men  talking  together.  One  of  them  was 
Ferguson.  Randolph  recognized  him  again  in  a  moment. 
He  was  speaking  in  his  harsh  voice,  apparently  with  great 
earnestness,  while  the  two  younger  men  seemed  to  hang 
upon  his  words  as  though  he  were  some  oracle.  The  eldest 
of  the  party,  and  evidently  the  master  of  the  house,  sat 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  and  in  his  grave,  dark 
face  there  was  nothing  of  the  eager  hopefulness  plainly 
visible  in  the  looks  of  the  others.  With  his  long,  dark 
hair,  his  stern  features,  his  expression  of  quiet  sadness,  he 
might  have  sat  as  a  typical  representation  of  sorrow  with- 
out hope.  Ferguson  waxed  more  loud  and  eager.  His 
words  reached  the  two  listeners  outside. 

"  The  people  can  not,  shall  not— and  mark  me,  will  not, 
endure  a  Popish  tyrant.  You  all  of  you  know  that,  and 
would  fain  fight  again  for  the  Exclusion  Bill,  were  there 
but  a  Parliament.  And  once  more  mark  my  words  ?  The 
king  is  but  a  Papist  in  disguise,  and  in  that  worse  than  his 
brother,  who  at  least  is  an  honest  man." 

Apparently  the  master  of  the  house  strove  to  moderate 
the  speakers  energy.  He  bent  forward,  and  said  some- 
thing, which  was  inaudible  to  the  two  invisible  *pectator». 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  35 

After  that,  only  a  low  hum  of  voices  reached  them.  Fer- 
guson produced  his  shagreen  pocket-book,  and  began  to  read 
them  extracts,  and  once  the  master  of  the  house  crossed 
the  room,  and,  opening  a  book  case  with  glass  doors, 
took  down  a  volume  to  search  for  some  reference.  This 
brought  him  so  n*ar  to  the  window  that  Hugo's  heart  be- 
gan to  beat  at  double  time.  The  man  had  such  a  noble 
face  that  he  could  not  endure  the  idea  that  Randolph  medi- 
tated denouncing  him  to  the  government.  Worse  still, 
that  he  himself  might  be  used  as  the  second  witness. 

Suddenly  his  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat.  With  eyes  open- 
ed to  their  widest  extent,  he  stared  at  the  apparition  which, 
with  gliding,  ghostly  motion,  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
Noiselessly  the  door  had  opened  ;  noiselessly  there  walked 
in  a  white-robed  figure.  The  two  younger  men  uttered  ex- 
clamations of  terror,  even  Ferguson  looked  startled  as  the 
figure  advanced  slowly  toward  the  book-case,  and  seemed 
about  to  open  it.  Good  heavens  !  it  was  no  apparition. 
It  was  Joyce  herself — Joyce,  whom  Hugo  had  thought 
never  to  see  again.  And  better  far,  so  he  bitterly  felt, 
that  he  had  never  again  seen  her,  rather  than  see  her  in 
such  a  manner.  Alas !  alas  !  had  he  been  brought  to  play 
the  spy  on  her  father  ? 

"  Tis  but  my  little  daughter,"  he  heard  the  master  of  the 
house  explain  to  his  guests.  "  She  has  the  habit  of  walk- 
ing in  her  sleep,  but  'tis  many  years  since  she  was  troubled 
with  it."  Then  going  up  to  her,  "  Joyce,  dear,  come  with 
me." 

"  She'll  wake  up  and  discover  us,"  suggested  one  of  the 
party,  looking  much  concerned. 

"  I  don't  think  it,"  said  the  father.  "  But  keep  still. 
Joyce,  my  love,  come." 

The  girl  instinctively  turned  toward  him.  He  took  her 
hand  in  his  arm,  and  quietly  led  her  out  of  the  room. 

Hugo  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm.  Randolph  motioned  to 
him  to  come,  and  stealthily  they  crept  back  through  the  gar- 
den, across  the  moat,  and  out  into  the  park.  It  was  not 
till  they  were  safely  in  the  road  again  that  Randolph 
spoke. 

"  You  have  done  extremely  well,"  he  said.  "  and  shown  no 
small  self-control.  That  ghostly  looking  maid  was  enough 
to  put  a  fellow  off  his  guard." 

"  Tell  m  now  why  you  brought  me  here,"  said  Hugo,  in 
a  voice  which  even  to  himself  sounded  unnatural. 

"  Because  I  wanted  a  second  witness,  and  had  reason  to 


36  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

believe  that  we  might  be  able  to  hunt  down  a  nest  of  con- 
spirators." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  master  of  the  house  ? 
Why  do  you  wish  to  get  him  into  trouble  ?" 

Randolph  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  his  name  ?"  he  said.  "  His  name  is 
Francis  Wharncliffe." 

Hugo  almost  gasped. 

"  And  that  was  his  daughter  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Ay,  that  was  one  of  his  six  daughters,  and  you  and  I 
may  thank  a  merciful  Providence  that  he  has  no  son,  other- 
wise I  should  never  come  into  the  property." 

At  last  Hugo  understood  the  reason  of  his  brother's  con- 
duct. A  few  days,  nay  a  few  hours  before  it  would  scarcely 
have  shocked  him,  he  would  not  have  troubled  himself  to 
think  twice  about  the  matter.  But  that  afternoon  he  had 
been  awakened,  sharply  and  thoroughly.  A  vision  of  good, 
a  vision  of  evil,  had  presented  themselves  to  him,  and  the 
spirit  of  manly  independence  had  been  roused  within  him. 
He  felt  like  one  who  rises  from  dreams  of  blissful  and 
luxurious  ease,  to  find  that  all  the  pleasant  existence  was  an 
illusion,  while  life,  hard,  perplexing,  full  of  cares  and  con- 
tradictions, has  to  be  faced  and  fought. 

"  Mind  this,"  said  Eandolph,  after  a  pause.  "  You  must 
on  no  account  betray  our  name  to  any  one  at  the  inn.  No 
one  must  suspect  that  we  are  kinsmen  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor." 

"  Is  there  need  for  all  this  mystery  ?"  said  Hugo,  in  a 
tone  of  disgust. 

"  Certainly  there  is  need  of  it  if  I  say  so.  You  forget 
yourself,"  Randolph  spoke  angrily,  and  Hugo  thought  it  ex- 
pedient to  make  no  reply.  Wearily  he  plodded  on,  almost 
too  tired  to  feel  very  acutely,  or  to  wish  very  much  for  any- 
thing but  that  they  were  back  at  the  White  Horse. 

x "  You  are  faint,"  remarked  Randolph  at  length,  noticing 
with  what  an  effort  he  kept  from  lagging  behind.  And 
with  rough  kindness  he  drew  his  arm  within  his.  Hugo 
winced. 

"  Good  Lord !"  exclaimed  Randolph,  really  concerned.  "I 
had  forgot  Sir  Peregrine  struck  you.  Here,  come  the  other 
Bide.  Is  it  much  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  a  mere  scratch,"  said  Hugo,  beginning  to  step 
out  briskly. 

In  all  his  life  Randolph  had  never  spoken  to  him  with  so 
much  solicitude,  nor  had  the  two  brothers  ever  before 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  37 

walked  arm-in-arm.     It  made  up  to  Hugo  for  all  the  trouble 
and  perplexity  of  the   day,  and  his  heart  throbbed  with 
eager  delight  as  his  guardian  added  : 
"  "Zou  fought  well  and  I  was  proud  of  you." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    WARNING. 

The  generous  Christian  must  as  well  improve 

I'  th'  quality  of  the  serpent  as  the  dove; 

He  must  be  innocent,  afraid  to  do 

A  wrong,  and  crafty  to  prevent  it  too, 

They  must  be  mixt  and  temper 'd  with  true  love; 

An  ounce  of  serpent  serves  a  pound  of  dove. 

FRANCIS  QTLARLES. 

THE  next  day  was  a  Sunday.  Hugo  slept  late,  was  in  fact 
only  roused  by  the  bells  of  the  village  church  chiming  for 
morning  service.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  the  sky 
was  cloudless ;  it  was  one  of  those  still  autumn  days  when 
winter  seems  yet  far  off,  and  Nature  enjoys  a  sort  of  halcyon 
calm.  Hugo's  wound  was  painful,  much  more  painful  than 
on  the  previous  day;  spite,  too,  of  the  sunshine,  and  the 
gayly  pealing  bells,  and  the  country  quiet,  he  awoke  with  a 
heavy  consciousness  of  coining  trouble,  which  waa  curiously 
foreign  to  him.  He  dressed  rapidly,  and  went  down  to  the 
inn  parlor.  The  sanded  floor,  the  blazing  fire,  and  the  well- 
laden  breakfast-table  looked  tempting.  His  brother  was 
not  there,  only  Denham  was  at  the  table,  dividing  his  atten- 
tions between  a  dish  of  excellent  trout  and  a  comely  serv- 
ing-wench. 

He  waved  the  girl  aside  as  Hugo  entered,  and  the  two 
friends  were  left  to  themselves. 

"So,  mine  Hugo!"  ejaculated  Denham,  "are  you  recov- 
ered from  your  duelling  ?" 

"  Nearly,"  said  HugoT    "  Where  is  Randolph  ?" 

"Somewhere  between  this  and  St.  Edmondsbury;  at 
what  exact  point  I  am  unable  to  inform  you." 

"What  has  he  gone  there  for?"  asked  Hugo,  astonished 
and  slightly  alarmed. 

"  Well,  you  must  know  that  while  you  were  in  the  arms 
of  Morpheus,  and,  by  the  bye,  you  must  have  more  than 
slept  the  clock  round,  the  leech  from  St.  Edmondsbury  ar- 


38  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

rived.     Such  a  pompous  apothecary  as  you  never  saw .    Sir 
Peregrine  will  do  well  enough,  don't  alarm  yourself. " 
"  But,  Randolph— 

"  Went  to  St.  Edmondsbury  on  his  own  behoof  and  not 
on  Sir  Peregrine's,  I'll  warrant  you.  Look  here !  and  you 
can  keep  a  secret  and  will  swear  not  to  tell  Randolph  that 
I  told  you,  you  shall  hear  the  whole  matter.  After  Sir 
Peregrine  had  been  well  physicked,  bled,  bandaged,  and 
so  forth,  the  worthy  leech  came  down  and  breakfasted 
with  us.  We  talked  of  one  thing  and  another,  and  pres- 
ently he  let  fall  that  he  knew  the  family  at  the  Hall  and 
had  in  former  years  oftentimes  visited  them." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  Colonel  Wharncliffe  ?"  asked 
your  brother. 

"  Said  the  leech,  '  A  most  dangerous  man,  a  known  re- 
publican, and  what  is  worse,  he  has  without  let  or  hind- 
rance given  his  biggest  barnt  o  a  set  of  vile  conventiclers 
who  meet  there  unmolested  every  Sunday.' 

"  Said  your  brother,  '  Why  is  it  allowed  when  contrary 
to  law?'  ' 

"  Said  the  leech,  shaking  his  head,  *  Colonel  Wharncliffe 
was  a  pleasant-spoken  man  and  respected  by  the  people, 
and  none  in  those  parts  would  inform  against  him.' 

"  By  and  by,  when  the  leech  had  gone  to  have  a  last  look 
at  Sir  Peregrine,  Randolph  told  me  what,  doubtless,  you 
know,  that  he  hated  this  kinsman  of  yours  like  sin,  and 
wanted  to  oust  him.  He  says  this  may  be  a  stepping- 
stone,  and  will  at  least  get  the  colonel  heavily  fined,  if  not 
imprisoned.  Moreover,  it  will  put  a  stop  to  the  conventi- 
cle, which  is  safe  to  be  a  den  for  breeding  Protestant  plots." 
"  And  Randolph  has  gone  to  St.  Edmondsbury  to  in- 
form?" 

"  Ay  ;  though  of  course  not  under  his  own  name.  Then 
this  morning,  when  the  good  folks  are  on  their  knees,  there, 
will  be  a  dramatic  entertainment — enter  a  dozen  wolves  in 
soldiers'  clothing,  who  disperse  the  lambs  and  arrest  the 
shepherds.  I've  a  good  mind  to  be  there  to  see." 

Hugo  made  scarcely  any  comment  on  this  long  speech. 
His  'reputation  for  dreamy  indifference  stood  him  now  in 
good  stead,  and  Denham  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that 
while  he  quietly  discussed  his  plateful  of  fish  and  drank 
the  home-brewed  ale,  he  was  racking  his  brain  for  some 
means  of  frustrating  his  brother's  scheme.  Dared  he  do 
it  ?  Dared  he  absolutely  work  against  Randolph,  check 
him  in  a  matter  for  which  he  cared  so  much  and  must  have 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  39 

swallowed  down  so  many  scruples  ?  It  seemed  as  if  he 
were  always  fated  to  have  Randolph  on  one  side  and  Joyce 
on  the  other,  as  if  he  were  to  be  forced  to  choose  between 
them.  What  was  worse,  it  seemed  to  be  justice  and  inde- 
pendence pitted  against  tyranny  and  lawful  authority. 
In  the  small  arena  of  his  private  life  he  had  to  fight  the 
same  battle,  make  the  same  choice  which  lay  before  the 
nation  at  large. 

"  Going  to  church  ?"  asked  Denham. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo,  mechanically. 

"  Then  you  had  best  look  sharp  about  it.  And,  look  here, 
just  give  the  serving-wench  a  call ;  she  may  as  well  clear 
the  decks." 

"  And  amuse  you/'  added  Hugo,  with  a  smile. 

He  was  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  his  companion,  and,  taking 
up  his  broad-brimmed  hat  fringed  all  round  with  ostrich 
feathers,  he  left  the  inn  and  crossed  over  the  way  to  the 
church.  He  took  a  seat  close  to  the  door,  mechanically 
holding  his  hat  before  his  eyes  for  a  minute,  after  his  usual 
custom,  but  too  much  engrossed  with  thoughts  of  Colonel 
WharnclinVs  danger  to  attempt  anything  but  the  outward 
gesture.  The  parson  and  the  clerk  were  reading  the 
Psalms  between  them  ;  so  few  of  the  people  could  read 
that  they  could  hardly  be  expected  to  make  many  of  the 
responses.  Perhaps  merely  because  the  words  fitted  in 
with  the  subject  of  his  thoughts  one  verse  startled  him  into 
sudden  attention  :  "  Thou  has  not  shut  me  up  into  the 
hand  of  the  enemy,  but  hast  set  my  feet  in  a  large  room." 

What  distinct  thought  the  words  brought  to  him  it  would 
be  hard  to  explain,  but  a  consciousness  that  God  would 
have  freedom,  breadth,  and,  above  all,  no  persecution, 
somehow  dawned  upon  him.  The  "  I "  of  the  Psalms  be- 
came to  him  the  distant  kinsman  whose  fate  was  practically 
in  his  hands. 

"  I  became  a  reproof  among  all  mine  enemies,  but  espe- 
cially among  my  neighbors;  and  they  of  mine  acquaintance 
were  afraid  of  me  ;  and  they  that  did  see  me  without  con- 
veyed themselves  from  me." 

"  Fear  is  on  every  side,  while  they  conspire  together 
against  me,  and  take  their  counsel  to  take  away  my  life." 

"  My  time  is  in  thy  hand  ;  deliver  me  from  the  hand 
of  mine  enemies,  and  from  them  that  persecute  me." 

"  Oh,  how  plentiful  is  thy  goodness  which  thou  hast  laid 
up  for  them  that  fear  thee." 

"  Thou  shalt  hide  them  privily  by  thine  own  presence 


40  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

from  the  provoking  of  all  men;  thou  shalt  keep  them 
secretly  in  thy  tabernacle  from  the  strife  of  tongues." 

Thus  here  and  there  sentences  flashed  forth  with  new 
meaning  in  the  old  words — words  which,  true  at  the  time 
to  human  nature,  must  be  true  throughout  the  ages. 

But  then  as  to  Randolph  ?  If  he  found  out  who  had 
frustrated  his  plans,  his  wrath  would  be  something  barely 
endurable !  And,  after  all,  why  should  he  defend  a  man 
with  whom  he  did  not  agree,  and  defend  him  at  such  risk 
to  himself? 

It  has  been  left  for  a  modern  thinker  to  frame  the  noble 
maxim  :  "  Conscience  is  higher  than  consequences,"  but 
yet  it  was  the  dim  perception  of  this  truth,  a  truth  which 
he  could  not  have  put  into  words,  which  made  Hugo  at 
last  decide  that  come  what  might  he  would  warn  the  con- 
gregation in  the  barn.  He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket- 
book,  and,  during  the  reading  of  the  lessons,  wrote  the 
following  lines  : 

"  Sir, — An  informer  has  this  morning  lodged  an  inform- 
ation against  you  at  St.  Edmondsbury,  as  one  who  fre- 
quenteth  conventicles.  The  informer  will  endeavor,  and  I 
doubt  not  will  succeed,  to  bring  over  sufficient  force  to 
scatter  the  congregation  and  to  arrest  the  leading  members. 
Be  advised  by  one  who  loveth  not  persecution,  and  for  the 
present  discontinue  your  meetings." 

Having  folded  and  directed  this  missive,  he  sat  patiently 
waiting  for  the  end  of  the  second  lesson.  Through  the 
pointed  windows  the  sunshine  streamed  brightly,  glorify- 
ing the  simple  Gothic  arches  and  pillars.  The  village 
church  was  plain  enough  and  bare  enough  to  please  a  Pur- 
itan; there  was  not  a  vestige  of  color  in  it,  and,  contrasted 
with  his  glorious  Temple  Church,  it  seemed  to  Hugo  cold 
and  even  ugly.  And  yet,  as  he  sat  there  looking  at  the 
golden  sunshine  flickering  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
cast  on  the  chancel  wall,  he  felt  a  strange  love  for  the 
place,  the  sort  of  love  we  bear  to  all  places  where  we  have 
had  a  glimpse  of  something  which  was  before  unknown 
to  us. 

"  He  that  is  not  against  us  is  on  our  part,"  read  the  old 
clergyman.  "  For  whosoever  shall  give  you  a  cup  of  cold 
water  to  drink  in  my  name,  because  ye  belong  to  Christ, 
verily  I  say  uuto  you,  he  shall  not  lose  his  reward." 

The  congregation  stood  up  to  sing  the  "  Jubilate,"  such 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  41 

of  them,  at  least,  as  did  not  turn  to  look  at  the  young  gal- 
lant who,  having  behaved  strangely  enough  all  the  service, 
now  got  up  and  left  the  church,  a  proceeding  which  caused 
the  village  worthies  to  shake  their  heads. 

"  Better  have  stayed  to  ogle  the  girls  through  the  sermon," 
they  agreed  afterward,  "  than  go  out  just  when  parson 
had  given  forth,  *  Oh,  be  joyful  in  the  Lord  all  ye  lands, 
come  before  his  presence  with  a  song.' "  Instead  of  "  com- 
ing," the  graceless  gallant  "  went." 

There  was  not  a  minute  to  be  lost,  he  almost  ran  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  two  miles — indeed,  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  large  barn  which  stood  by  the  wayside  not  far 
from  the  entrance  to  the  Mondisfield  farm  yard,  he  was  so 
much  out  of  breath  that  he  was  obliged  to  wait  some  min- 
utes before  he  was  cool  and  collected  enough  to  enter  the 
place  and  deliver  his  letter.  In  the  meantime,  through  a 
hole  in  the  wooden  wall,  he  looked  in  at  the  congregation. 

The  barn  was  large  and  lofty  ;  at  one  end  was  stacked  a 
quantity  of  golden  corn,  in  the  center  at  a  wooden  desk 
stood  a  little,  insignificant  man,  preaching.  Before  him, 
some  sitting  on  rough  benches,  some  on  the  floor,  were 
ranged  in  rows  about  forty  men  and  women,  all  listening 
to  the  discourse  with  rapt  attention.  When  the  words 
found  any  special  echo  in  their  hearts,  notably  when  the 
preacher  alluded  to  the  need  of  courage  and  patience  under 
present  persecution,  there  was  a  low  hum  of  agreement, 
a  sort  of  subdued  applause,  which  surprised  and  somewhat 
amused  Hugo,  who  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  understand 
how  sane  people  could  prefer  to  worship  in  a  draughty 
barn,  at  serious  risk  to  their  lives  and  to  their  property, 
when  the  village  church  had  been  built  on  purpose  for 
them.  There  was  something  very  remarkable,  however, 
in  the  spectacle.  They  were  all  so  desperately  in  earn- 
est, religion  was  to  them  such  a  tremendous  reality.  As 
he  watched  their  serious  faces,  their  expression  of  intense 
listening,  he  was  reminded  somehow  of  a  day  in  West- 
minster Abbey  when  he  had  watched  the  deeply  rever- 
ential manner  of  good  Bishop  Ken.  Each  sight  stirred 
within  him  a  dim  perception  that  there  were  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  were  dreamed  of  in 
his  philosophy.  Could  it  be  that  as  in  childhood  he 
had  cared  only  for  flowers  because  of  their  beauty  and  fra- 
grance, knowing  nothing  of  their  structure  nor  dreaming 
that  science  could  open  his  eyes  to  a  new  world  of  beauty 
within — could  it  be  so  also  with  religion  ?  Had  he  as  yet 


42  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

only  a  vague  satisfaction  in  something  that  seemed  to  him 
beautiful?  Was  there,  indeed,  for  him  the  possibility  of  a 
deeper  knowledge,  a  clearer  revelation.  If  so,  what  in  these 
matters  was  the  microscope  ?  and  who  stood  in  the  position 
of  Mr.  Robert  Hooke,  perpetual  secretary  to  the  Royal  So- 
ciety, and  the  author  of  "  Micrographia  ?  " 

"  Men  can  rise  above  the  circumstances  in  which  they  are 
placed,"  urged  the  preacher,  with  an  emphasis  that  roused 
Hugo  from  his  own  thoughts.  "  Look  at  Paul,  read  what  he 
tells  of  his  hard  times.  Was  he  conquered  by  'em,  think 
you  ?  No,  no,  he  rose  above  'em,  turned  'em  into  means  of 
glorifying  the.  Master.  You  must  rise  -above  the  circum- 
stances in  which  you  are  placed  !  if  you§  don't,  your  cir- 
cumstances will  swallow  you  up,  will  drag  you  down  lower 
and  lower." 

Here  the  good  man  fell  to  talking  of  "  election,"  and 
consequently  Hugo's  attention  flagged,  the  speaker  no 
longer  appealed  to  him.  He  shifted  his  position  and  look- 
ed through  a  a  fresh  hole.  Ah !  there  was  the  man  he 
wanted  !  and  close  beside  him  there  sat  Joyce,  sweet  Joyce, 
with  her  grave  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  preacher — perhaps 
still  wondering  whether  she  was  one  of  the  "  elect."  Good 
heavens !  and  he  was  lingering  here  in  the  luxury  of 
watching  her,  when  de]*iy  might  mean  danger  to  her 
whole  family !  Feeling  more  like  a  black  sheep  and  an  out- 
sider than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  before,  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  barn,  and,  with  slightly  heightened  color, 
walked  right  through  the  space  which  lay  between  the 
preacher  and  the  rows  of  listeners  until  he  reached  the 
bench  where,  with  his  wife  and  his  six  children,  sat  his  un- 
known kinsman. 

The  congregation,  in  their  sad-colored  clothes,  stared 
suspiciously  at  the  new-comer.  Dark  green  and  rich  crim- 
son, flowing  locks  and  fantastic  feathers,  seemed  very 
much  out  of  place  in  the  barn.  What  did  the  stranger 
mean  by  composedly  stalking  right  through  their  assem- 
bly in  this  way  ?  It  was  an  untoward  event,  and  doubtless 
boded  no  good  to  the  wayside  conventicle.  Looks  of  sus- 
picion, looks  of  fear,  looks  of  uncontrollable  dislike,  fell 
upon  him  as  he  quietly  made  his  way  on.  He  was  fully 
conscious  of  them,  but,  as  usual,  whatever  inward  pertur- 
bation he  might  have  felt  was  veiled  entirely  by  the  calm, 
indifferent  manner  which  invariably  characterized  him. 

"Read  it  without  delay,"  he  whispered,  handing  the 
note  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  who  in  undisguised  astonish- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  43 

ment  glanced  first  at  the  missive,  then  at  the  bearer.  One 
swift  look  at  Joyce,  one  recognizing  return  glance  from 
her  clear,  child-like  eyes,  then  again  he  ran  the  gauntlet 
of  the  doubtful  and  perplexed  Nonconformists  and  quitted 
the  assembly. 

Scarcely  had  he  closed  the  great  wooden  door,  however, 
with  elaborate  care,  courteously  anxious  to  make  as  little 
disturbance  as  might  be,  when  it  was  hastily  reopened 
and  Colonel  Wharncliffe  hurried  after  him. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  very  considerate 
communication/*  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  let  me  know  to  whom  I  am  indebted  ?" 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  Hugo,  "  but  to  the  spirit  of  justice 
which,  though  you  may  not  think  it,  does  find  a  dwelling- 
place  in  the  heart  of  many  a  Churchman." 

"  I  can  well  believe  that,"  said  the  colonel.  "  We  do 
not  wish  to  assume  any  superiority,  merely  to  claim  our 
right  as  free  Englishmen  to  worship  God  in  our  own  way. 
But,  pray,  let  me  know  your  name,  for  I  hav*  a  notion  that 
you  must  be  the  same  gentleman  who  courteously  succored 
my  little  daughter  but  yesterday." 

"  That,  sir,  was  an  act  for  which  I  need  no  thanks,"  said 
Hugo,  quietly.  "  The  reward  lay  in  the  doing.  As  for  my 
name,  I  would  rather  withhold  it,  and  I  pray  you  to  par- 
don me." 

"  It  must  be  as  you  think  best,"  said  the  colonel,  with 
some  regret  in  his  tone.  "  I  thank  you  none  the  less  heart- 
ily; your  information  will  have  saved  many  a  heart-ache 
this  day." 

Hugo  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  him,  he  was  listening 
intently  to  a  sound  of  distant  hoofs,  far  away  as  yet,  but 
certainly  approaching  them  along  the  St.  Edmondsbury 
road. 

"For  God's  sake,  sir,  disperse  the  meeting  instantly," 
he  exclaimed.  "I  hear  horsemen  drawing  near.  And 
show  me  some  hiding-place  for  the  moment — I  am  undone 
if  my  guardian  sees  me." 

"  There !  under  the  willows,"  said  the  colonel,  pointing 
to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  across  fertile  fields 
wound  the  Mondisfield  brook,  surrounded  by  a  thick  jun- 
gle of  rushes,  willow  herb,  and  low  bushes. 

Without  another  word  Hugo  sprung  across  the  broad 
ditch  which  bordered  the  field,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight 
among  the  tangled  labyrinth.  The  colonel  did  not  pause 
to  watch  him,  he  had  the  safety  of  the  whole  congregation 


44  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

to  think  of.  Promptly  lie  returned  to  the  barn,  shut  and 
barred  from  within  the  double  doors,  and  signing  to  the 
minister  to  pause,  said,  in  a  clear,  authoritative  voice  : 

"  My  friends  we  are  in  great  danger.  We  must  disperse, 
and  that  instantly.  Hurst,"  turning  to  one  of  his  men, 
"  throw  open  the  doors  into  the  stack-yard.  Now  make  all 
speed  into  the  park,  and  keep  not  in  one  body,  but  scatter 
yourselves  in  groups.  Let  the  women  and  such  as  cannot 
run  follow  on  to  the  Hall,  where  we  will  shelter  them." 

The  words  produced  a  chorus  of  exclamations,  but  the 
Nonconformists  showed  nothing  like  panic  ;  with  grave, 
anxious  faces,  with  prompt  submission,  they  obeyed  the 
colonel.  There  was  little  if  any  confusion,  only  great 
speed,  great  quietness,  while  through  the  stack-yard,  in 
different  directions  fled  the  peaceable  congregation,  who 
but  a  few  minutes  bef ore  had  been  gravely  listening  to  the 
assurance  that  "  men  can  rise  above  the  circumstances  in 
which  they  are  placed." 

Mrs.  Wharncliffe  hurriedly  led  the  way  to  the  house 
helping  on  a  poor  woman  who  was  burdened  with  two 
little  children;  five  of  the  daughters  followed  her,  each 
guiding  or  assisting  one  of  those  who  were  deemed  too  old 
or  infirm  to  make  their  escape.  Only  Joyce  still  lingered: 
she  could  not  bear  to  leave  before  her  father,  who,  like  the 
captain  of  a  vessel,  stayed  to  the  very  last.  Her  heart 
beat  so  fast  that  it  nearly  choked  her,  and  yet  all  the  time 
she  was  conscious  of  the  Bort  of  pleasure  she  had  felt  once 
when  her  pony  ran  away  with  her,  a  sense  of  risk,  a  de- 
mand for  high  courage  and  strength  and  coolness. 

And  now  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  had  stopped,  but 
only  to  give  place  to  a  much  more  alarming  sound,  the 
sound  of  men's  voices.  Loud  voices  declaring  "  that  this  was 
the  place,  this  the  accursed  conventicle,  this  the  vile  preach- 
ing shop." 

"Joy!  are  you  here?"  exclaimed  Colonel  "Wharncliffe,  for 
the  first  time  becoming  conscious  of  her  presence.  "We 
are  to  late  now  to  run,  child.  Here — this  way!"  and  seiz- 
ing her  hand,  he  dragged  her  after  him  into  the  nearest 
outhouse. 

"The  loft,"  he  whispered,  motioning  her  toward  a  rough 
ladder.  Joyce  could  climb  like  a  squirrel,  she  was  up  in 
the  loft  in  less  than  a  minute,  crouching  down  among  the 
hay  with  her  father's  arrn  round  her. 

Heavy  blows  were  being  dealt  on  the  barn  doors  ;  at 
length  they  gave  way,  and  from  their  place  in  the  loft, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  45 

which  was  on  the  side  of  the  yard  immediately  facing  the 
barn,  Joyce  and  the  colonel  could  see  that  a  body  of  about 
twenty  men  broke  in.  There  was  a  murmur  of  disap- 
pointment when  they  found  that  the  place  was  empty. 

"  I  made  sure  we  should  have  been  in  time,"  said  the 
leader,  turning  to  a  gentleman  richly  dressed  in  crimson 
and  wearing  a  long  peruke.  "  Some  one  has  given  them 
notice  of  your  intention,  your  honor,  for  you  see,  spite  of 
our  hot  haste,  the  birds  are  flown." 

Randolph  frowned.  Inwardly  he  was  in  a  towering 
rage  ;  but  he  answered,  with  cool  composure.  "It  is  im- 
possible  that  they  can  have  been  warned.  Who  could 
have  warned  them?" 

"Your  honor  knows  best  to  whom  you  imparted  th&, 
fact  of  your  mission  to  St.  Edmondsbury." 

Denham. !  could  Denham  have  betrayed  him  ?  Coul<3 
Hugo  possibly  have  got  wind  of  his  intention,  and  once 
again  have  been  troubled  by  a  conscience,  that  truly  unde- 
sirable possession  ?  It  was  barely  possible,  and  yet  who 
else  could  have  done  it  ?  Vowing  vengeance  on  the  un- 
known destroyer  of  his  hopes,  he  turned  once  more  to  the 
chief  constable. 

"What  are  those  idiots  doing ?"^he  asked,  angrily  point- 
ing to  the  men  who  were  smashing  up  the  benches  and 
splintering  the  desk  which  served  as  pulpit  into  a  hundred 
fragments. 

"We  have  orders,  your  honor,  in  every  case  to  strip  the 
conventicle,"  returned  the  man;  "we  always  break  up  the 
pews  and  pulpit,  but  i'  faith  there's  little  enough  to  wreck 
in  this  poor  place.  It  will  serve  to  remind  them  though 
another  day." 

"  But  we  waste  time,"  said  Randolph,  impatiently.  "Why 
not  order  the  men  up  to  the  Hall,  where  there  might  be 
some  hope  of  catching  this  fanatical  colonel?" 

"We  can  up  to  the  Hall,  sir,  an  you  will,"  said  the  con- 
stable. "But  I  can't  arrest  tlie  colonel  unless  he  be  found 
a-praying  or  a-preaching,  or  a-worshiping  somehow  with 
over  the  lawful  number." 

"Confound  your  scruples  !"  said  Randolph,  angrily;  "I 
tell  you  he's  a  pestilent  treason-monger,  a  vile  conventicler, 
one  who  harbors  heretics  and  preachers." 

"Very  like,  sir,  very  like,"  said  the  constable.  "But  I've 
only  a  warrant  to  arrest  such  as  be  found  a-worshiping  in 
unlawful  ways.  I  can't  go  beyond  my  warrant,  sir." 

"  Confound  you  and  your  warrant  too,"  exclaimed  Ran- 


46  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

dolph,  furiously.  "Bring  your  men  on  to  the  Hall  at  once. 
Perchance  we  may  yet  find  the  knave  on  his  knees." 

The  chief  gave  the  word  of  command,  and  instantly  the 
men  formed  in  a  column  and  marched  through  the  stack- 
yard, passing  close  under  the  loft  where  the  colonel  and 
Joyce  lay  crouched  among  the  hay.  Joyce  hid  her  face  in 
sudden  panic  as  the  slow  tramp  of  their  feet  drew  nearer 
and  nearer.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  they  could  see  and 
yet  not  be  seen,  and  not  until  the  steps  were  retreating  in 
the  distance  did  she  dare  to  look  forth.  How  strange  it 
seemed  that  their  own  stack-yard,  where  only  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday  they  had  been  merrily  playing  at  "Barley 
Break,"  should  now  be  the  scene  of  such  an  alarming  in- 
cursion !  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp — gradually  the  sound  of 
the  many  feet  died  away  into  silence,  and  the  last  glimpse 
of  the  crimson  hat  of  the  hot-tempered  gentleman  disap- 
peared. 

"  Oh,  father ! "  exclaimed  Joyce.  "  Who  can  that  be, 
and  why  does  he  so  hate  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  child.  'Tis  a  face  that  is  wholly  strange 
to  me,"  replied  the  colonel.  "  Doubtless  he  is  the  guar- 
dian of  whom  that  brave  lad  spoke  to  me  but  now.  See, 
we  will  come  from  our  hiding  place  now  that  they  are  well 
out  of  view.  They  can  do  no  mischief,  thank  God !  up  at 
the  house.  Come  with  me,  child,  we  must  keep  out  of  the 
way  till  they  have  dispersed." 

Together  they  emerged  from  the  outhouse,  and,  passing 
out  of  the  yard,  crossed  the  road  and  made  their  way  into 
the  field  where  Hugo  lay  hid.  Joyce  breathed  more  freely 
when  they  were  safely  sheltered  by  the  willows.  Till  then 
she  hardly  dared  to  look  behind  her.  Suddenly  she  paused 
and  clutched  her  father's  arm. 

"  I  see  a  man's  head !  "  she  whispered.  "  There,  hid  low 
among  the  bushes." 

"  It  is  our  loyal  preserver,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I  must 
speak  a  few  words  with  him.  From  what  passed  between 
the  constable  and  my  unknown  foe,  I  fear  he  will  get  into 
trouble." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Joyce,  "then  t'will  be  the  second  time  he 
has  suffered  through  helping  us.  Can  you  not  save  him, 
father — warn  him  of  the  danger." 

"  Thank  Heaven !  you  are  safe !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  raising 
himself  as  they  approached  him.  "I  greatly  feared  my 
warning  had  been  too  late." 

"  We  are  safe,  thanks  to  you,"  replied  the  colonel,  warmly; 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  47 

"  and  now  it  is  solely  on  your  account  that  I  am  anxious. 
Tell  me  where  it  would  raise  least  suspicion  for  your  guar- 
dian to  find  you." 

'•At  Mondisfield  Church,  were  there  time  to  reach  it," 
said  Hugo.  "  But  I  fear  to  try,  least  he  should  overtake  me 
on  the  road." 

"We  will  show  you  a  much  nearer  track  across  the 
fields,"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "  See,  as  the  crow  flies  it 
is  but  a  short  distance.  The  congregation  are,  I  trust,  all 
escaped  by  now,  and  I  and  my  daughter  cannot  do  better 
than  take  a  quiet  walk  in  the  fields,  for  which  at  present  no 
man  can  arrest  us." 

"I  hope,  sir,  your  wound  is  doing  well,"  said  Joyce, 
shyly,  as  they  walked  rapidly  on. 

"  Thanks  to  your  skillful  bandaging,  it  is  healing  fast," 
he  replied.  And  then  Colonel  Wharncliffe  referred  to  the 
duel,  and  a  desultory  conversation  ensued  which  afterward 
Hugo  could  not  recall,  though  he  could  remember  every 
change  in  Joyce's  face,  every  glance  from  those  heavenly 
eyes,  every  tone  of  her  clear,  childish  voice. 

Yet  ever  mingled  with  the  rapture  of  being  near  her  was 
a  miserable  sense  of  unworthiness,  a  wretched  conscious- 
ness that  against  his  will  he  had  watched  them  last  night 
when  they  little  suspected  it.  Worse  still,  that  at  any  time 
he  might  be  required  to  give  evidence  against  the  colonel. 
His  usually  tranquil  face  bore  traces  of  trouble  and  anxiety 
which  did  not  escape  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  He  felt  sorry 
for  the  boy,  drawn  to  him  strongly,  unaccountably.  Would 
he  in  his  life  of  temptation  manage  to  "  rise  above  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed  ?"  Recalling  the  far 
stronger  face  of  the  guardian,  and  realizing  how  much  it 
had  cost  the  lad  to  go  against  him  that  day,  he  could  not 
feel  very  hopeful. 

All  too  soon  they  reached  the  end  of  their  walk  ;  sadly 
enough  Hugo  raised  Joyce's  little  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
turned  to  bid  farewell  to  her  father. 

"I  shall  never  fail  to  think  of  what  you  have  done  for  us 
this  day,"  said  the  colonel,  grasping  his  hand;  "  God  grant 
the  rest  of  your  life  be  in  tune  with  this  beginning." 

Hugo  turned  away,  feeling  positively  choked.  Oh,  God! 
that  this  had  been  the  beginning !  That  blind  obedience 
had  not  landed  him  in  such  a  strait !  that  habitual  sub- 
mission had  not  almost  paralyzed  his  will !  And  Joyce — 
sweet,  blue-eyed  Joyce  !  He  should  never  see  her  again, 
never  be  able  to  tell  her  of  his  love,  never,  never  in  the 


48  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

most  distant  future  dare  to  dream  of  her  as  his  wife.  Over- 
whelmed with  the  new  consciousness  of  his  weakness  he 
re-entered  the  village  church.  The  sermon  had  been  long,  and 
now  there  lingered  some  half-dozen  country  people,  for  it 
was  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month,  "  Sacrament  Sunday," 
as  they  called  it.  At  first  Hugo  could  not  make  out  what 
had  happened,  but  it  was  a  relief  to  find  that  the  service 
was  not  over,  and  that  for  the  present  he  was  safe  from 
Bandolph.  How  strange  it  seemed  that  while  the  old  cler- 
gyman had  been  slowly  proceeding  with  the  morning  ser- 
vice he  should  have  lived  through  what  seemed  like  half  a 
life-time ! 

How  it  happened  he  never  quite  knew,  but  as  he  me- 
chanically knelt  on  in  one  of  the  high  pews,  dimly  con- 
scious that  the  old  man  in  the  chancel  was  reading  some 
prayer,  two  words  seemed  to  separate  themselves  from  the 
unintelligible  surroundings.  "  Do  this !" 

In  his  misery,  in  his  shame,  in  his  hopelessness,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  for  the  first  time  that  here  was  a  command 
which  he  had  neglected.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  behind 
all  the  villagers,  pausing  even  for  the  old  cripple  in  the 
smock  frock,  the  stranger  walked  up  the  aisle  and  knelt  at 
the  altar  rails. 

He  came  so  quietly  that  the  villagers  did  not  notice  him, 
but  the  holy  clergyman  was  sorely  perplexed.  Here  was 
a  stranger  who  had  behaved  very  oddly,  who  had  come  in 
late,  left  in  the  Jubilate,  returned  in  the  middle  of  the  com- 
munion service,  and,  having  missed  both  confession  and 
absolution,  presented  himself  at  the  altar,  though  in  all 
probability  he  was  the  very  man  who  had  fought  the  duel 
by  the  roadside,  which  was  already  the  talk  of  the  village. 
What  in  the  world  was  he  to  do  ?  Moving  from  one  to 
another  of  the  communicants,  he  had  arrived  at  XLO  definite 
conclusion  when  he  found  himself  opposite  the  new-comer. 
Involuntarily  he  paused,  half  hesitating.  The  stranger's 
head  was  bent  low;  he  raised  it  now,  however;  the  clergy- 
man gave  him  one  searching  glance,  and  after  that  hesita- 
ted no  more. 

"  I*  fear  me  you  have  done  an  illegal  thing,"  said  his 
wife,  as  they  walked  home  to  the  vicarage  together. 

"Confound  legality!"  said  the  old  parson,  who  was  not 
at  all  above  swearing.  "  I  tell  you  he  had  the  face  of  a 
Christom  child !  I  couldn't  have  refused  him." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  49 


CHAPTER  V. 


HUGO    MEETS    A   PATRIOT. 

GLOUCESTER.  —  The  noble'and  true-hearted  Kent  banished  I  his 
offense,  honesty  !  'Tis  strange. 

FOOL.  —  Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 

KENT.  —Why,  fool  ? 

FOOL.  —  Why,  for  taking  one's  part  that's  out  of  favor;  nay,  an 
Jhou  canst  not  smile  as  the  wind  sits,  thou'lt  catch  cold  shortly. 
Lear. 


IT  needed  no  comet,  as  Colonel  Wharncliffe  very  truly 
femarked,  to  foretell  national  troubles  in  the  year  1682. 
Never,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  history  of  the  country  had 
the  political,  social,  and  religious  outlook  been  more 
gloomy. 

Rivers  of  blood  had  been  shed  scarcely  half  a  century 
before  to  preserve  the  liberties  of  England  and  to  protest 
against  absolutism  and  tyranny  ;  yet  in  this  year  the  ma- 
jority of  the  nation  seemed  willing  idly  to  acquiesce  in 
the  illegal  encroachments  of  the  king.  The  preceding 
generation  had  dearly  bought  the  nation's  right  of  repre- 
sentative government  ;  yet  tamely,  miserably,  contempti- 
bly, the  succeeding  generation  submitted  once  again  to 
the  Stuart  despotism.  The  Exclusion  Bill  had  been  re- 
jected by  the  Lords,  mainly  through  the  king's  influence. 
The  general  election  of  the  year  1681,  which  had  produced 
so  much  excitement,  so  much  eager  expectation,  in  the 
country,  had  proved  worse  than  useless.  The  new  parlia- 
ment summoned  by  the  king  to  Oxford  in  the  month  of 
March  was  dissolved  by  him  in  April  ;  while  so  great  was 
the  fear  and  distrust  of  both  parties  that  the  Commons 
thought  it  prudent  to  surround  themselves  with  a  strong 
escort,  and  the  king  was  accompanied  by  his  guards. 

From  this  time  dated  the  era  of  the  "  Second  Stuart 
Tyranny,"  to  be  ended  as  all  tyrannies  must  be  ended  —  by 
a  revolution. 

How  it  came  to  pass  that  Englishmen  endured  such  a 
state  of  things  for  years  it  is  indeed  difficult  to  surmise. 
Perchance  the  chief  blot  on  the  annals  of  the  Common- 
wealth —  the  execution  of  the  king  —  at  length  avenged  it- 
self, the  bad  seed  bearing  now  its  bitter  fruit  in  a  certain 
inexplicable  attachment  to  the  son  of  the  beheaded  mon- 
arch —  a  man  who  deserved  such  attachment  even  less  than 


50  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

his  father.  However  it  was,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
country  submitted  to  be  ruled  by  a  tyrant,  to  be  without  a 
parliament,  to  lose  the  high  position  among  European  na- 
tions gained  for  England  by  Cromwell,  and  to  be  bought 
by  Louis  XIV.  into  political  slavery,  the  price  of  which 
served  partly  to  keep  the  king's  mistresses. 

One  greal  barrier  still  stood,  however,  in  Charles's  way. 
There  could  not  be  absolute  government  while  the  char- 
ters of  the  city  of  London  and  of  the  other  cities  re- 
mained. Consequently  all  his  efforts  were  bent  to  induce 
the  cities,  either  by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  cede  their  an- 
cienfc  privileges,  and  the  journals  of  the  time  show  all  too 
plainly  with  what  criminal  speed  they  complied  with  the 
royal  suggestion,  and  surrendered  their  charters. 

The  social  outlook  was  even  worse  than  the  political. 
The  reaction  from  Puritan  intolerance  and  ultra-gravity 
had  of  course  come  about  at  the  Restoration,  and  liberty 
had  degenerated  into  license.  But  this  alone  is  insufficient 
to  account  for  the  blatant  wickedness  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  A  wave  of  vice  seemed  to  pass  over  the  coun- 
try ;  vice  became  the  fashion.  If  any  one  dared  to  con- 
demn the  fashion  he  was  set  down  as  a  narrow-minded 
Puritan,  and  speedily  snubbed.  Shame  was  in  those  days 
an  unknown  quantity.  "  The  quality  of  mercy  "  was  men- 
tioned now  and  then  by  Portia  in  the  play-house,  and  by 
the  priest  in  the  church,  but  was  rarely  cultivated  by  any 
one  ;  while  cruelties  which  sicken  the  nineteenth-century 
reader  were  permitted  and  even  countenanced  by  educated 
men  and  women. 

As  to  the  religious  outlook  it  was  the  most  glocmy  of 
all.  The  Church  taught  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience, 
and  truckled  miserably  to  the  court.  Brave  and  outspoken 
Churchmen,  who  would  not  wink  at  wickedness  even  in 
high  places,  had  sooner  or  later  to  seek  safety  in  exile  ; 
while  others,  who  would  fain  have  followed  in  the  steps  oi 
Christ,  were  thwarted  on  every  side,  and  from  the  smallness 
of  their  numbers  proved  nearly  powerless.  The  Latitudi- 
narians — the  followers  of  Jeremy  Taylor — in  vain  strove  to 
show  that  a  good  life  was  to  be  desired  even  more  than  an 
orthodox  belief,  that  a  broad-hearted  toleration  could  alone 
bring  about  Christian  unity.  They  were  unable  to  stem 
the  current  of  fierce,  selfish  intolerance,  of  Pharisaical  self- 
contentment,  of  blind  indifference  to  the  sufferings  of 
others. 

The  country  was  drenched  with  the  blood  of   Roman 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DATS.  51 

Catholics,  barbarously  murdered  merely  for  their  opinions. 
The  prisons  were  crammed  with  Nonconformists,  eight 
thousand  of  whom  died  of  the  hardships  they  there  met 
with  in  the  miserable  time  which  elapsed  between  the  Res- 
toration and  the  Revolution.  Worst  of  all,  there  sprung 
up  a  gross,  heartless,  selfish  materialism,  an  atheism  which, 
compared  with  the  secularism  of  modern  times,  was  as  the 
prodigal  wallowing  among  the  swine,  to  the  prodigal  strug- 
gling laboriously  to  his  father. 

It  was  the  6th  of  November.  All  London  was  in  a  state 
of  tumult  and  commotion,  bells  were  ringing,  bonfires  pre- 
paring, crowds  assembling  in  all  the  chief  thoroughfares. 
Gunpowder-Plot  Day  had  this  year  fallen  on  a  Sunday,  and 
in  consequence  was  to  be  kept  on  the  succeeding  day  in- 
stead. Rumor  had  gone  abroad  that  the  king  disapproved 
of  the  observance  and  would  fain  have  stopped  it  altogether, 
but  no  edict  had  been  published,  and  the  rumor  only  served 
to  stimulate  the  zeal  of  the  citizens  who  had  not  as  yet  re- 
covered from  the  panic  caused  by  the  Popish  plot. 

The  vast  majority  of  the  nation  still  believed  in  the  real- 
ity of  Gate's  revelations,  and  in  any  case  this  was  certainly 
the  very  last  time  to  neglect  the  National  Thanksgiving 
day.  The  'prentices  donned  their  best  clothes,  and  sallied 
forth  on  merry-making  intent ;  the  housewives  prepared 
candles  stuck  in  clay  to  be  set  out  at  nightfall  on  the  win- 
dow sills  ;  and  the  Temple  students,  with  scarcely  an  ex- 
ception, turned  out  into  Fleet  Street  to  take  their  part  in 
the  night's  proceedings. 

At  one  of  the  chambers  in  King's  Bench  Walk,  however, 
Hugo  sat  buried  in  his  books,  not  feeling  at  all  inclined  to 
stir  for  any  recollections  of  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  nation's 
memorable  deliverance.  Randolph  was  out,  and  was  not 
likely  to  return  that  night;  he  had  the  premises  to  himself, 
and  was  blissfully  enjoying  the  peaceful  quiet,  and  the  un- 
divided possession  of  the  camp,  the  table,  and  the  sea-coal 
fire,  when  the  door  was  opened.  He  looked  up  quickly,  not 
feeling  at  all  inclined  to  welcome  a  visitor,but  only  Jeremiah 
stood  there,  the  old  servant  who  had  been  in  the  family  more 
than  twenty  years,  and  who  had  done  everything  for  Hugo 
since  the  great  plague  year,  when  father,  mother,  nurse, 
indeed  all  the  household  save  the  two  brothers  and  the 
old  servant,  had  been  swept  away  in  less  than  a  week. 
Jeremiah  was  a  strongly-built,  hard-featured  man,  and  at 
first  sight  would  have  seemed  to  a  casual  observer  the  very 
last  man  to  accept  the  post  of  general  care-taker  to  a  deli- 


52  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

cate  child  of  three  years  old,  just  recovering  from  an  attack 
of  the  deadly  malady.  He  had  proved,  however,  the  most 
faithful  and  the  most  devoted  attendant.  It  was  to  Jere- 
miah that  the  boy  invariably  turned  for  comfort  when 
Randolph,  for  some  childish  fault  or  misadventure,  had 
mercilessly  thrashed  him.  It  was  to  the  old  man's  stimu- 
lating stories  about  the  civil  war  that  he  owed  a  vast  ad- 
miration for  all  deeds  of  courage  and  endurance,  deeds 
that  were  naturally  but  little  in  accord  with  his  quiet  and 
over-bookish  tendencies.  Jeremiah  was  one  of  the  old 
Cromwellian'soldiers,  and  had  fought  at  Marston  Moor  and 
many  other  bloody  encounters.  Disbanded  at  the  Resto- 
ration, the  Ironsides  had  quietly  retired  into  various  trades 
and  services,  and  Jeremiah  had  faithfully  served  the  house 
of  Wharncliffe,  and  had  proved  the  best  influence  in  Hu- 
go's life. 

"Still  at  thy  books,  lad?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  disap- 
proval. "  Thou'lt  never  be  a  man  of  action,  if  thou'rt  ever 
reading." 

"We  can't  all  be  men  of  action,  Jerry,"  said  Hugo,  resign- 
ing himself  to  the  interruption  with  his  usual  sweetness  of 
temper. 

"Nature  didn't  mean  us  all  for  Ironsides,  and  you  well 
know  that  you  will  never  turn  me  'nto  one.  Draw  your 
chair  up  and  fetch  your  pipe,  'tis- mighty  pleasant  by  the 
fire,  and  I'll  warrant  your  den  is  as  cold  as  charity. 
Randolph  will  not  be  back  to-night." 

The  old  servant  drew  one  of  the  heavy  oaken  chairs  to 
the  hearth,  shaking  his  head,  however,  in  a  meaning  way 
over  Hugo's  last  words. 

"  'Twould  break  my  heart,  lad,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"  wert  thou  to  take  to  such  doings." 

"W  uld  it?"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "What  a 
staunch  old  Puritan  you  are,  Jerry!  Well,  I  must  try  not  to 
break  your  heart  then." 

"  Broad  is  the  road  to  destruction,  and  many  there  be 
that  walk  along  it,"  said  Jeremiah,  shaking  his  head. 

",Come  now,  Jerry,  don't  begin  a  second  'Book  of 
Lamentations,' for  in  truth  one  is  quite  enough." 

"Broad  is  the  road,  and  with  your  guardian  leading  the 
way  I  fear  me  thou'lt  follow." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Jerry  !"  Hugo  started  to  his  feet,  and  a 
glow  of  color  overspread  his  iisually  pale  face.  "  There's 
just  one  tiling  that  I'll  never  stand  from  you.  Say  what 
jou  like  against  me,  but  as  to  my  brother,  please  to  hold 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  53 

your  tongue.  I'll  not  hear  one  word  against  Randolph. 
Do  you  think  that  in  all  London  you  would  find  a  master 
whose  life  would  fit  in  with  your  rigid  notions  ?" 

"Belike  not,"  said  the  old  servant,  sententiously. 

There  was  a  silence.  Hugo  speedily  repented  of  his 
momentary  anger. 

"  I  have  vexed  you.  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  " '  Twas  a 
graceless  speech  from  one  whom  you  had  tutored.  But  as 
you  love  me,  Jerry,  speak  no  more  of  the  duchess  and  my 
brother.  As  for  me — I  think  you  may  trust  me  that  111 
not  break  your  heart  in  the  fashion  you  speak  of — I  would 
sooner  break  my  own  any  day." 

Jerry's  stern  face  relaxed,  but  what  he  would  have  said 
in  reply  remained  forever  unknown,  for  as  he  was  about  to 
speak  there  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door,  which  he 
hastened  to  open. 

A  rush  of  cold  air  from  the  staircase,  and  a  loud,  cheer- 
ful voice  saluting  the  old  soldier,  then  a  vision  of  many- 
colored  raiment,  and  Denham's  merry  face. 

"  You  old  hermit !"  he  exclaimed.,  "  I  might  have  known 
I  should  find  you  up  to  the  eyes  in  books.  What,  man, 
have  you  forgot  that  'tis  Gunpowder-Plot  Day,  and  the 
duty  of  all  good  Protestants  is  to  be  abroad  anathematiz- 
ing pope  and  devil." 

"  They'll  do  it  well  enough  without  my  aid,"  said  Hugo, 
yawning.  "And  of  all  things  I  hate  a  street  uproar." 

"  Bookworm,  'tis  the  best  possible  thing  for  you.  Come, 
own  that  you've  not  stirred  abroad  this  day." 

"  Not  once  only,  but  twice,"  said  Hugo,  smiling. 

"Ah,  I  can  guess  the  length  of  your  tether  though. 
From  King's  Bench  Walk  to  Pump  Court,  there  to  pore 
over  your  lessons  like  the  good  boy,  then  later  on  per- 
haps as  far  even  as  the  Devil,  to  hear  the  news." 

"  As  far  as  the  Grecian,"  corrected  Hugo. 

"  Marvelous !"  exclaimed  Denham.  " Do  you  hear,  Jerry; 
\Our  young  master  has  actually  walked  nearly  to  Temple 
Bar  and  back.  Come  now,  Jerry,  you  back  me  up  and  tell 
him  he  ought  to  sally  forth  this  fine  evening." 

"  In  truth,  sir,  I  was  but  now  telling  him  he  would  never 
be  a  man  of  action  if  he  did  nought  but  read  from  morn 
till  night." 

Hugo  groaned  and  tossed  away  his  books. 

"  There's  a  conspiracy  between  you,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"  And  when  you  know  I  fought  a  duel  on  the  5th  of  last 


54  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

month  I  think  it's  hard  you  won't  leave  me  in  peace  beyond 
the  6th  of  this !" 

So  saying  he  took  up  his  sword,  leisurely  proceeding  to 
fasten  his  baldrick,  while  Jeremiah  fetched  his  hat  and 
cloak  from  the  next  room. 

"  'Twill  do  thee  good,  lad,  'twill  do  thee  good,"  said  the 
old  man,  as  he  opened  the  outer  door  for  the  two  to  pass 
out,  speaking  much  as  a  nurse  might  speak  while  offering 
medicine  to  a  reluctant  child. 

Passing  from  the  quiet  purlieus  of  the  Temple  into 
Fleet  Street  was  that  night  like  passing  from  a  peaceful 
paradise  into  a  pandemonium.  To  stir  was  almost  impos- 
sible, so  dense  was  the  crowd,  and  had  it  not  been  that  a 
certain  weird  beauty  in  the  scene  touched  Hugo's  ready 
imagination,  he  would  speedily  have  retreated  again,  to 
avoid  the  pushing  and  jostling  which  to  one  of  his  temper- 
ament was  singularly  distasteful. 

But  there  was  undoubtedly  a  subtle  fascination  in  the 
dark  mass  of  spectators  and  pleasure-makers,  in  the  lurid 
glare  of  the  bonfire  already  kindled  over  against  the  Inner 
Temple  Gate,  in  the  gleaming  candles  set  out  in  all  the 
windows,  and  in  the  flaring  links  which  were  borne  hither 
and  thither  among  the  crowd.  Laughter  echoed  here  and 
there,  amid  the  roar  of  many  voices;  oaths,  jests,  questions, 
and  sober  talk,  all  mingled  in  one  general  medley,  and  all 
more  or  less  overpowered  by  the  ever-recurring  chorus 
shouted  forth  with  untiring  energy  by  every  one  possessed 
of  zeal  and  good  lungs. 

"Remember,  remember  the  fifth  of  November, 
Gunpowder  treason  and  plot. 
I  see  no  reason  why  gunpowder  treason 
Should  ever  be  forgot 

Holloa,  boys  !     Holloa,  boys  !    Make  the  bells  ring. 
Holloa,  boys  !    Holloa,  boys  !    God  save  the  King  ! " 

And  in  truth  the  bells  did  ring  with  right  good  will, 
well-nigh  deafening  every  one,  till  the  signal  was  given 
that  the  procession  was  drawing  near,  and  when  the  noise 
of  the  multitude  became  slightly  subdued,  it  was  just  pos- 
sible to  hear  the  trumpets  and  drums  which  formed  part 
of  the  ceremony. 

Denham  and  Hugo,  who  were  standing  close  to  Temple 
Bar,  had  the  benefit  of  a  close  and  prolonged  inspection  of 
the  lon^  procession,  for  on  the  eastern  side  a  halt  was 
ordered,  whilo  before  the  statuo  of  "  Good  Queen  Bess/' 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  55 

one  of  the  gorgeously  arrayed  performers  sung  a  patriotic 
song,  extolling  the  memory  of  the  good  queen,  the  Protes- 
tant religion,  and  the  Reformation,  denouncing  all  "  popish 
knaves,"  lamenting  the  unfortunate  Sir  Edmondsbury 
Godfrey,  and  warning  all  good  citizens  to  shun  the  pope 
and  his  boon  companion.  In  the  meantime,  surrounded  by 
hundreds  of  torch-bearers,  heralded  by  minstrels  and  trump- 
eters, the  poor  old  pope,  in  a  most  life-like  effigy,  sat  aloft 
in  his  chair  of  state,  covered  with  scarlet,  richly  adorned 
with  gold  fringe  and  embroidery.  On  his  shoulder  sat  a 
dwarf  who  had  consented  to  play  the  role  of  "  Devil,"  and 
who  certaiuly  looked  most  diabolical  as  he  climbed  hither 
and  thither,  whispering  evil  counsel  in  the  ear  of  the  effigy, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other.  Immediately  behind 
the  pope  there  followed  a  bier  on  which  was  laid  an  effigy 
of  the  magistrate,  who  had  been  murdered  immediately 
after  receiving  Oates's  first  revelation  of  the  so-called  Popish 
plot. 

"Poor  Sir  Edmondsbury!"  said  Hugo,  unable  to  help 
smiling  a  little.  "I  should  have  thought  that  by  this  time 
they  had  used  him  often  enough  at  these  shows.  Why 
can't  they  let  the  poor  man  rest  in  peace  ?" 

"  He  has  but  been  dead  a  matter  of  four  years !"  said 
Denha-n,  laughing.  "And  you  may  be  sure  that  Shaftes- 
bury  has  no  intention  of  laying  aside  his  best  puppet  yet 
awhile.  Hark,  how  the  people  groan  even  now !  Never  was 
such  a  murder  as  that  for  stirring  up  the  populace." 

"  I  thought  Shaftesbury  had  lost  his  last  chance,"  said 
Hugo.  "  Does  any  one  know  where  he  has  taken  himself  to  ?" 

"  Some  say  that  he  is  in  Holland;  others  that  he  is  hiding 
in  the  city,  and  devising  mischief  in  his  heart.  But  no  one 
doubts  that  he  has  yet  a  finger  in  the  pie.  Depend  upon 
it,  he  and  his  have  pulled  the  strings  which  make  these 
puppets  dance  to-night.  A  notable  Protestant  is  my  Lord 
Shaftesbury!" 

By  this  time  the  procession  was  moving,  and  the  pope, 
the  devil,  Sir  Edmondsbury  Godfrey,  the  minstrels,  the 
trumpeters,  the  drummers,  the  torch-bearers,  followed  by 
a  disorderly  rabble,  passed  on  again.  Denham  and  Hugo 
were  borne  on  by  the  crowd  whether  they  would  or  not,  and 
were  just  in  time  to  see  the  devil  leap  lightly  from  the  shoul- 
der of  his  Holiness  as  the  huge  effigy  was  snatched  down 
from  its  lofty  throne  and  hurled  into  the  midst  of  the  bon- 
fire. Then  there  rose  a  chorus  of  joyful  acclamation,  storms' 
of  cheering  and  huzzaing,  while  the  dwarf,  in  the  character 


56  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

of  his  Satanic  majesty,  danced  a  hornpipe  around  the  bon- 
fire, jeering  at  the  sufferings  of  his  vanquished  servant, 
who  crackled  gruesoniely  in  the  flames.  After  this  there 
ensued  a  regular  saturnalia,  the  result  of  which  was  that 
many  found  themselves  in  prison  that  night,  and  that  strict 
orders  were  immediately  issued  by  the  king  that  the  17th  of 
the  month,  Queen  Elizabeth's  birthday,  was  not  to  'be 
observed  at  all. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Denham,  as  they  struggled  along 
through  the  riotous  crowd,  "  I  was  to  ask  you  to  sup  with 
us  ;  my  father  says  you  have  deserted  us  of  late.  To-night 
Colonel  Sidney  will  be  with  him,  and  he  would  fain  have 
you  two  meet." 

Hugo  smiled.  It  amused  him  somehow  to  think  that  Sir 
William  Denham  should  think  him  worth  introducing  to  any 
one,  least  of  all,  to  such  a  man  as  Colonel  Sidney. 

"  I  have  heard  Colonel  Sidney's  praises  sung  by  Jere- 
miah ever  since  I  can  remember,"  he  said.  "At  least  I 
suppose  you  mean  him  that  was  son  to  the  late  Lord 
Leicester." 

"Ay,  he's  the  man.  My  father  is  wondrous  pleased  with 
him.  In  politics  of  course  they  are  poles  apart,  but  my 
father  is  too  much  of  a  scientific  hermit  to  care  a  rush  for 
that.  For  my  part,  I  can  see  nought  in  Colonel  Sidney 
more  than  other  folk,  save  that  he  is  mighty  stern.  My 
father  says  that  both  you  and  he  are  anachronisms,  and 
therefore  he  would  have  you  meet." 

"  How  anachronisms  ?"  said  Hugo,  laughing. 

"  He  has  an  idea  that  you  should  rightly  have  been  born 
two  or  three  hundred  years  hence.  That  in  fact  you  are 
both  of  you  too  far  ahead  of  your  surroundings  to  live 
comfortably  in  this  wicked  world." 

Hugo  smiled  and  disclaimed  any  wish  to  postpone  his 
life  for  so  long  a  period.  With  all  its  faults  and  imperfec- 
tions he  clung  to  his  own  time  and  would  not  have  ex- 
changed it  for  any  dim,  advanced  future  had  it  been  in  his 
power  to  do  so.  For  in  truth,  when  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  question,  few  people,  even  if  they  are  miserable, 
would  exchange  their  own  individuality,  and  still  fewer 
would  accept  that  magic  potion  which  would  enable  the 
partaker  to  wake  up  in  a  different  century,  even  though 
their  own  century  be  chiefly  distinguished  by  wickedness. 
Universal  is  the  feeling  that  we  would 

"  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  57 

Sir  "William  "Denham's  house  was  in  Norfolk  Street,  and 
the  two  friends,  having  at  length  pushed  through  the  dense 
crowd  by  St.  Clement  Danes,  and  struggled  along  the 
Strand,  were  not  sorry  to  find  themselves  in  smooth  waters 
again.  The  distant  roar  of  the  multitude  was  to  be  heard 
even  in  the  house,  but  it  only  served  to  accentuate  the  quiet 
within.  This  house  was  Hugo's  ideal  of  comfort,  and  was 
indeed  almost  the  only  home  he  knew.  The  Denhams 
were  all  fond  of  him,  and  fortunately  Kandolph  approved  of 
the  friendship,  only  objecting  a  little  when  he  though  Sir 
William  was  endeavoring  to  turn  Hugo  into  a  man  of  science 
rather  than  a  man  of  the  world. 

The  with  drawing-room  looked  very  pleasant  that  cold 
November  evening,  and  made  a  very  pleasant  picture  as 
they  came  in  out  of  the  murky  darkness  of  Norfolk  Street. 
The  polished  floor,  the  many-colored  Eastern  curtains,  the 
Japanese  cabinets,  the  comfortable  fire  of  logs,  beside 
which  sat  Lady  Denham,  with  her  sweet,  placid  face  and 
snowy  curls.  The  little  spaniel  on  the  hearthrug  sprung 
up  and  barked  at  them,  and  was  called  to  order  by  Mary 
Denham,  Sir  William's  niece  and  ward,  who  sat,  embroidery 
in  hand,  close  to  her  aunt.  On  the  other  side  of  the  hearth 
Sir  William,  with  his  kindly,  wrinkled  old  face,  was  talking 
eagerly  to  a  stranger  who  sat  in  the  great  arm-chair. 

Hugo  knew  that  this  must  be  Colonel  Algernon  Sidney, 
the  anachronism,  and  he  looked  at  him  searchingly.  He 
saw  a  man  of  about  sixty,  in  a  brown  doublet  with  silver 
facings  and  cords,  a  plain  white  cravat  tied  with  two  small 
tassels,  but  not  boasting  the  smallest  piece  of  lace,  and  a 
dark  brown  periwig,  not  so  long  as  those  which  had  more 
recently  come  into  fashion.  These  lesser  details  came  to 
his  notice  in  the  first  glance,  afterward  they  sunk  into  utter 
insignificance,  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  face — the 
strangely  fascinating  face  which  from  that  day  forth  was 
to  become  to  him  what  no  other  face  on  earth  could  ever 
be.  In  expression  it  was  sad  and  somewhat  stern,  particu- 
larly in  profile,  when  the  strongly  marked  Eoman  features 
stood  out  in  relief.  The  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  and 
slightly  receding,  the  whole  face  thin  and  long,  with  high 
cheek  bones  and  a  prominent  and  rather  pointed  chin. 
He  wore  a  slight  mustache,  and  there  was  something  in 
the  pose  of  his  lips  which  betokened  an  impatient  temper 
that  would  not  easily  brook  contradiction.  This  was,  how- 
ever, to  some  extent  contradicted  by  his  eyes,  which  were 


58  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

large,  keen,  and  thoughtful,  dark  in  color,  and  in  shape 
singularly  beautiful. 

He  raised  his  curved  eyebrows  a  little  as  Denham  and 
his  friend  approached,  an  involuntary  sign  of  surprise  es- 
caping him  as  he  looked  at  Hugo.  Indeed,  so  beautiful 
and  so  strange  in  expression  was  the  boy's  face  that 
very  few  could  have  avoided  such  a  gesture. 

"  Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  our  friend  Mr.  Wharn- 
cliffe/'  said  Sir  William,  when  the  ladies  had  been  saluted. 
"  Hugo— Colonel  Sidney." 

Hugo  bowed  low. 

"  Your  name  is  familiar  to  me,"  said  Sidney.  "  Though 
how  I  know  not.  Do  you  not  come  of  a  Suffolk  family  ?" 

"  We  are  distantly  related  to  the  Suffolk  Wharncliffes, 
sir,"  replied  Hugo,  and  something  in  his  manner  showed 
Sidney  that  he  had  touched  upon  an  embarrassing  subject. 

"  'Twas  a  Suffolk  Wharncliffe  that  caused  him  his  first 
duel,"  said  Rupert,  laughing. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Sir  William.  "  I've  been  hearing  about 
that,  Hugo.  Now  I  should  have  thought  you  were  one  of 
the  few  of  his  majesty's  subjects  who  might  be  trusted  to 
obey  the  edict  of  79." 

"  The  duel  was  not  of  my  seeking,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  color- 
ing. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Sir  William,  smiling.  "  We  have  heard 
the  rights  of  the  story  from  Rupert  here  ;  you  did  well, 
lad,  very  well,  and  Sir  Peregrine  deserved  all  you  gave 
him.  How  fares  it  with  him  now;  have  you  heard  of  him  ?" 

"  Randolph  heard,  this  day  was  a  se'nnight,  and  he  was 
then  walking  again.  I'm  glad  'twas  no  worse." 

"  You  were  less  lucky  than  I  was  in  my  only  challenge," 
said  Sidney,  who  had  been  keenly  watching  the  lad  while 
he  spoke.  "  'Twas  over  in  Holland,  and  our  seconds  man- 
aged to  patch  up  a  peace  on  honorable  terms.  A  barbar- 
ous custom  is  the  duel,  but  royal  edicts  will  not  put  an 
end  to  it." 

"  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  it  will  ever  be  stopped  ?"  asked 
Hugo. 

"  For  certain,"  said  Sidney.  "  Not  by  the  influence  of 
his  majesty,  but  by  the  slow  development  of  civilization. 
As  yet,  you  see,  we  are  half  barbarians,  and  sadly  wanting 
in  common  sense." 

"  When  folks  in  general  learn  something  of  science,"  said 
Sir  William,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  referring  to 
his  hobby. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  59 

"  When  every  Englishman  has  grasped  the  thought  that 
he  owes  something  to  his  country,"  said  Sidney.  "  When 
human  life  is  rightfully  valued,  because  human  rights  have 
been  boldly  claimed,  and  human  duties  realized." 

"  But  how  will  claiming  of  rights  touch  the  matter  ?" 
asked  Hugo,  instinctively  turning  to  Sidney  as  though  he 
were  some  oracle. 

"  In  this  way,"  said  Sidney.  "  A  nation  grows  great  just 
in  proportion  as  the  people  making  up  the  nation  grow 
wise  enough  to  do  their  duty,  and  bold  enough  to  claim 
their  rights.  Take  as  example  any  given  case,  and  per- 
cliaiice  you'll  see  better  what  I  mean.  If  Lady  Denham 
and  her  niece  will  pardon  us,  and  since  they  are  exceptions 
to  the  rule,  I  think  they  will,  we  will  take  the  position  at 
present  given  to  women.  Women  are  but  treated  as  the 
toys  of  men,  treated  as  though  they  were  fit  only  to  satisfy 
the  senses,  and  maintain  our  species.  How  great  an  igno- 
rance is  this !  Who  cloth  not  know  that  every  age  hath 
produced  some  women  very  excellent  in  those  things  for 
which  men  most  prize  themselves  ?  And  yet  men  despise 
them."* 

"And  is  this  for  want  of  claiming  of  rights?"  said  Hugo. 
"It  is  so  in  great  measure.  Women  have  not  claimed 
those  helps  from  study  and  education  which  are  freely 
given  to  men,  but  in  the  natural  powers  of  mind  they  are 
noways  inferior.  Indeed,  the  well-composed  ness  of  a 
woman's  judgment  often  moves  one  to  envy.  In  my  opin- 
ion, to  whatsoever  they  apply  themselves,  either  learning, 
business,  domestic  or  public  government,  they  show  them- 
selves at  least  equal  to  our  sex.  But  nought  can  be  done 
till  in  the  slow  development  of  the  ages  they  awake  to  a 
sense  of  their  duties  and  of  their  rights  ;  and  until  men 
grow  purer  and  women  more  cultivated  there  is  but  a  sorry 
outlook  for  this  country  of  ours." 

Hugo  was  silent,  musing  over  the  very  novel  ideas  which 
had  been  presented  to  him.  The  doctrine  of  claiming  of 
rights  was  little  in  accord  with  his  character  or  his  education, 
while  as  to  perceiving  of  duties,  it  had  been  dinned  into 
him  from  his  very  childhood  that  the  whole  duty  of  man 
was  passive  obedience. 

Supper  was  just  then  announced,  and  they  went  below  to 
the  parlor. 

"But  were  we  all  to  learn  languages  and  science,  and  all 

*See  Algernon  Sidney's  " Essay  on  Love." 


60  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

things  that  make  up  a  good  education,"  said  Mary  Denham, 
"  who  would  order  the  house,  and  make  the  preserves,  and 
oversee  the  linen  ?" 

"  And  amuse  the  men,"  interposed  Kupert. 
Sidney  smiled. 

"There  must  ever  be  much  in  either  sex  that  the  other 
sex  cannot  perform,"  he  said.  "  We  would  not  if  we  could 
turn  women  into  she-men  ;  all  that  the  wise  would  claim  is 
that  woman  be  no  longer  treated  as  a  toy,  as  an  inferior, 
and  that  man  no  longer  ape  a  superiority  which  exists 
merely  in  his  own  conceit.  As  to  the  linen  and  the  pre- 
serves, why,  Sir  Thomas  More  found  his  chiefest  comfort 
in  a  daughter  who  was  a  prodigy  of  learning,  and  I'll  war- 
rant Mr.  Roper  did  not  find  his  house  ill-governed." 

"  In  truth,"  said  Lady  Denham,  "  many  a  maid  would  be 
glad  enough  to  learn  more  in  these  days,  but,  you  see,  the 
men  like  it  not." 
Sidney  laughed. 

"  Ah,  truly  they  like  it  not,  because  they  fear  their  boast- 
ed superiority  would  quickly  be  ended.  Be  advised  by 
me,  Mistress  Mary,  study  science  with  your  uncle,  and  lose 
not  your  chances  of- learning  for  the  sake  of  a  lew  gibes 
from  Whitehall  idlers." 

"  Defending  the  cause  of  women,  Colonel  Sidney  ;  you 
are  not  caring  for  your  own  wants,"  said  Lady  Denham. 
"  Let  me  give  you  some  of  this  red-deer  pie." 

"  Of  my  own  making,"  said  Mary,  with  a  little  mischiev- 
ous gleam  in  her  eyes.  She  was  a  brunette  with  bright 
dark  eyes,  a  rich,  glowing  complexion,  and  brown  hair 
curled  all  over  her  head  after  the  fashion  of  the  period. 
Her  face  was  sweet,  pure,  and  slightly  proud.  Hugo  ad- 
mired her  greatly.  For  the  last  two  years  there  had 
existed  between  them  a  sort  of  Platonic  friendship,  an 
admirable  thing  no  doubt  for  Hugo,  but  for  the  girl  a 
somewhat  doubtful  experiment.  She  seemed,  however,  so 
much  older  than  Hugo,  though  they  were  in  truth  of  the 
name  age,  that  no  one  dreamed  that  her  friendship  could 
possibly  develop  into  love,  and  her  aunt  was  only  too  glad 
to  have  Hugo  as  much  as  possible  about  the  house,  because 
she  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  almost  the  only  steady 
companion  whom  Kupert  cared  for. 

Mary  knew  what  no  one  else  in  the  world  knew — at  least 
in  Hugo's  world — that  he  had  warned  the  conventiclers. 
She  had  heard  the  whole  story  of  his  hurried  run  from  the 
church  to  the  barn,  of  how  he  had  met  Band olph  afterward 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  61 

in  the  church  yard  just  as  the  service  was  over,  and  had 
escaped  without  so  much  as  a  question,  and  of  how  from 
that  day  to  this  no  allusion  whatever  had  been  made  to  the 
heretical  kinsfolk  down  in  Suffolk.  She  had  heard  more 
about  the  duel  than  any  one  else,  and  she  had  elicited  a 
little — a  very  little — information  about  Joyce.  She  had  a 
restless  longing  to  learn  more  about  this  rescued  maiden, 
and  this  evening,  as  they  went  upstairs  again  after  supper, 
she  hazarded  a  question. 

"  Did  Sir  Peregrine  say  naught  of  fair  Mistress  Wham- 
cliffe  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile.  "  Methinks  he  should  at 
least  have  mentioned  the  cause  of  all  the  strife." 

Hugo  was  taken  by  surprise,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  had 
been  at  that  very  moment  wondering  what  Joyce  would 
think  of  Colonel  Algernon  Sidney's  notions  as  to  women. 
He  started  and  colored. 

"  I  saw  not  the  letter,"  he  replied,  hurriedly.  "  What 
he  may  have  said  of  her  I  know  not,  but  I  trust  it  was  not 
much.  I  would  not  have  so  much  as  her  name  fall  from 
his  vile  pen  if  it  could  be  helped." 

Never  had  she  seen  Hugo  so  visibly  discomposed  ;  with 
a  little  sigh  she  wondered  whether  he  would  mind  at  all 
what  this  Suffolk  squire  might  happen  to  write  about  her. 
It  did  not  at  all  trouble  him  apparently  that  she  should  be 
persecuted  by  the  attentions  of  men  quite  as  bad  doubt- 
less, though  not  so  unmannerly,  as  Sir  Peregrine  Blake. 
Her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  Eupert's  description  of 
the  rescued  maiden — "  devilish  pretty,  with  blue  eyes  "- 
she  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  her  own  eyes  were  not 
so  hopelessly  and  irretrievably  brown. 

"  Come,  Hugo,"  said  Sir  William.  "  You  n?ust  not  cheat 
us  of  a  song.  I  hear  you  have  a  manuscript  one  by  Mr. 
Purcell.  What  do  you  think,  Sidney,  of  our  young  com- 
poser ?" 

"  He  seems  to  be  nearer  to  the  mark  of  the  Italian  musi- 
cians than  any  English  song-writer,"  said  Sidney.  "  I  hear 
he  is  organist  at  Westminster  Abbey.  Is  that  so  ?" 

"  Ay,  'tis  true,"  said  Sir  William.  "  The  king  also  ap- 
pointed him  last  July  to  the  Chapel  Koyal.  He  is  a  fine 
player  and  worth  your  hearing." 

"  May  be,"  said  Sidney.  "  But  I  do  not  affect  public  wor- 
ship, least  of  all  in  one  of  the  Chapels  Eoyal.  Mr.  Wharn- 
cliffe  will  doubtless  render  his  music  well.  He  has  the  face 
of  a  musician." 

"Ay,  indeed,"  said  Sir    William,  lowering    his    voice. 


62  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"When  a  trifle  older  I  doubt  not  he  will  have  the  best  tenor 
in  all  London.  Mary,  do  you  accompany  him  on  the  spinet, 
it  goes  better  so  than  with  his  lute." 

Rupert  was  lighting  the  candles  and  Mary  had  already 
seated  herself  at  the  spinet,  which  stood  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  Soon  the  first  bars  of  an  exquisite  air  rang  out 
into  the  silence,  and  then  a  voice  marvelously  clear  and 
sweet  sung  Purcell's  new  song.  Never  before  had  Mary 
Denham  been  so  well  satisfied  with  the  power  and  expres- 
sion whieh  Hugo  threw  into  the  music  ;  in  former  times  she 
had  been  wont  to  scold  him  for  the  want  of  life  and  anima- 
tion in  his  singing,  to-night  she  felt  instead  a  curious  pain 
at  her  heart,  as  she  listened  to  the  wild  words  and  impas- 
sioned music  : 

"  I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain. 
No  more  now,  fond  *ieart,  with  pride  should  we  swell, 
Thou  canst  not  raise  forces  enough  to  rebel. 
I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain. 
For  love  has  more  power  and  less  mercy  than  fate, 
To  make  us  seek  ruin,  and  love  those  that  hate. 
I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain." 

There  was  complete  silence  among  the  listeners.  Sir 
William  wagged  his  foot  in  time  to  the  music,  Lady  Den- 
ham  laid  aside  her  embroidery  and  sat  idle,  Sidney  leaned 
back  in  the  great  armchair  beside  the  fire,  his  keen, 
thoughtful  eyes  fixed  upon  the  singer,  but  rather  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  the  lad  himself  than  of  the  song.  He 
had  taken  strange  fancy  to  Hugo,  strange  because  in  al- 
most every  point  their  characters  were  so  diametrically 
opposite.  Sydney  unbending  and  stern,  Hugo  yielding 
and  sweet-tempered,  the  elder  man  worn  with  the  hard- 
ships he  had  lived  through,  the  younger  fresh  and  unsullied, 
knowing  as  yet  nothing  of  life  and  but  little  of  care.  Great 
differences  often  prove,  however,  a  curious  sort  of  attrac- 
tion, and  in  this  case  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Sidney 
thought  to  himself — "  Had  I  had  a  son  I  would  have  had 
him  like  that !" 

He  had,  however,  neither  wife  nor  child,  most  of  his 
kinsfolk  were  alienated  from  him,  and  the  life  he  had  lived 
had  to  a  great  extent  unfitted  him  for  forming  many  friend- 
ships. Old  age  was  not  so  very  far  off  now,  and  its  ad- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  63 

vance  found  him  lonely  and  isolated,  with  countless  foes 
and  but  few  friends  on  whom  he  could  thoroughly  rely.  It 
was  as  Sir  William  had  said — he  was  an  anachronism  !  Like 
all  men  who  are  in  advance  of  tkeir  age — all  honest  and 
outspoken  men  at  least — he  had  met  with  much  bitten  op- 
position, also  he  had  apparently  failed,  and  that  is  a  hard 
fate  for  one  of  his  disposition.  He  had  failed  to  do  much 
for  the  country  he  loved  so  passionately,  he  had  failed  to 
leave  his  mark  on  his  generation,  he  had  failed  in  winning 
love  or  confidence,  or  distinction.  Watching  Hugo  he  fell 
to  thinking  of  his  own  youth — his  whole  life  rose  in  vision 
before  him. 

Good  God !  What  hopes  had  been  his  when  in  his 
nineteenth  year  he  had  first  been  put  in  command  of  a 
troop  of  horse  !  Again,  what  dreams  of  a  grand  future 
for  his  country  had  come  to  him  three  years  later,  when 
the  struggle  between  king  and  parliament  having  begun  in 
good  earnest,  he  had  volunteered  his  services  in  the  parlia- 
mentary army !  How  sweet  had  been  the  toilsome  cam- 
paign, the  wounds,  the  hardships  illumined  ever  with  the 
thought  of  the  nation's  liberties,  which  must  be  bought  at 
any  price !  But  victory  had  come  with  disappointment 
stalking  at  her  heels. 

Another  scene  rose  before  him — the  painted  chamber  at 
Westminster — a  number  of  men  eagerly  discussing  the  fate 
of  the  king — he  himself  full  of  dislike  to  all  violence,  wish- 
ing only  that  Charles  might  be  deposed  and  banished  by 
act  of  Parliament,  and  in  vain  urging  upon  Cromwell  and 
Bradshaw  that  the  king  could  be  tried  by  no  court,  and 
that  no  man  living  could  legally  be  tried  by  that  court. 
Again  he  saw  the  looks  of  aversion  and  suspicion  on  the 
faces  of  all  present  as  he  pleaded  for  his  bitterest  enemy, 
claimed  justice  for  his  country's  foe.  Again  Cromwell's 
words  rang  in  his  ears — "  I  tell  you  we  will  cut  off  his  head 
with  the  crown  upon  it  " — again  he  heard  his  own  reply  as 
he  quitted  the  assembly  never  to  return — "  You  may  take 
your  own  course,  I  cannot  stop  you  ;  but  I  will  keep  my- 
self clean  from  having  any  hand  in  this  business." 

The  scene  changed  ;  he  was  at  quiet  Penshurst  walking 
in  the  park,  and  one  brought  him  word  of  the  king's  death. 
Illegal  as  he  deemed  the  sentence,  the  doom  had  seemed  to 
him  but  just.  It  was  necessary  that  Charles  should  be  re- 
minded that  by  the  ancient  law  of  the  land  an  English  king 
receives  his  right  to  reign  from  the  will  of  the  people,  that 
he  had  been  "  therein  trusted  with  a  limited  power  to 


64  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

govern  by  and  according  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  not 
otherwise."  The  king  had  broken  his  trust,  had  done  his 
best  to  ruin  the  country,  had  laid  upon  the  nation  a  yoke 
which  could  not  be  borne — certainly  if  treason  ever  merited 
death  it  was  his  treason.  But,  as  civilization  develops,  the 
question  must  recur  again  and  again :  Has  any  human  be- 
ing the  right  in  any  circumstances  to  take  the  life  of  an- 
other. 

Then  he  wandered  on  through  the  years  of  disappoint- 
ment which  had  followed,  recalling  Cromwell's  patriotic 
zeal  and  wonderful  power,  recalling,  too,  the  impossibility  of 
working  with  one  who,  in  spite  of  all  his  virtues,  was  no"  re- 
publican, but  a  tyrant.  Again,  he  was  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  a  man  in  plain  black  clothes  and  gray  stock- 
ings was  walking  passionately  to  and  fro  with  his  hat  oibs 
upbraiding  the  members.  He  could  see  once  more  the 
sudden  entry  of  the  musketeers,  the  hurried  dispersion  of 
the  members — hear  once  more  the  peremptory  command 
to  himself  to  come  down,  and  on  his  refusal  could  feel 
again  the  hands  of  Harrison  and  Wortley  on  his  shoulders 
as  they  pushed  him  out  of  his  place  in  the  House,  and  in 
fact  out  of  public  life  altogether,  for  five  long  years.  Once 
more  hopes  had  arisen,  once  more  he  was  actively  at  work, 
carrying  on  negotiations  with  Sweden  and  Denmark.  The 
Restoration  had,  however  dashed  all  his  hopes  to  the 
ground,  and  after  that  tkere  came  only  a  vision  of  weary 
years  of  exile — wanderings  in  Germany,  Italy,  France, 
homeless,  friendless,  often  well-nigh  penniless,  in  constant 
danger  of  assassination,  and  ever  with  the  knowledge  that 
the  country  for  which  he  had  fought  and  bled  and  suffered 
was  going  to  ruin. 

Well,  his  exile  was  ended,  and  he  was  by  an  English 
hearth  again,  able  to  watch  the  ruin  of  his  country  yet 
more  closely. 

"A  sweet  song!  A  charming  song!"  exclaimed  Lady 
Denham.  "  Let  us  have  one  more,  Hugo.  It  is  long  since 
we  heard  you." 

Hugo  sung  "In  "Woodstock  Town,"  and  this  time  Sidney 
listened  to  him. 

"  I  have  not  heard  such  singing  since  I  was  in  Rome," 
he  said,  at  the  close.  "  There  was  at  that  time  a  tenor, 
Geronimo  by  name,  who  had  a  voice  much  like  yours.  Do 
you  sing  Italian  music  ?" 

"  I  do  at  times  to  the  king;  it  pleases  him  more  than  our 
English  music,"  said  Hugo. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  65 

Sidney  V  face  darkened.  He  made  no  reply,  however; 
and  shortly  after  the  servant  came  to  announce  that  Jere- 
miah waited  below  and  had  brought  a  message  to  his 
master. 

Hugo,  knowing  that  the  message  was  probably  from  his 
brother,  hastened  down.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  to 
the  withdrawing-room,  evidently  not  much  pleased  with  the 
news  Jeremiah  had  brought  him. 

"  I  must  bid  you  good-night,"  he  said,  approaching  Lady 
Denham.  "The  king  commands  my  presence  at  White' 
hall." 

"  We  must  see  more  of  one  another,"  said  Sidney,  as  he 
bade  him  farewell.  A  speech  which  made  every  pulse  in 
Hugo's  body  beat  at  double  time,  for  already  Sidney  had 
become  his  hero  of  heroes. 

"  To  think  that  such  as  he  must  go  to  Whitehall  1"  said 
Sidney,  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  him.  "  What  are 
his  people  about  that  they  permit  it." 

"  It  is  his  brother's  doing,"  said  Sir  William.  "  A  strange 
man  is  Wharncliffe,  one  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's 
devotees.  According  to  Hugo  that  is  his  sole  weakness, 
however.  He  is  a  bitter  sort  of  fellow,  but  somehow  the 
lad  is  mightily  fond  of  him." 

"And  he  of  the  lad?" 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  said  Lady  Denham.  "  He  is  very 
stern  with  him,  and  at  times  I  fancy  that  he  really  only 
cares  for  him  so  long  as  he  proves  useful." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT    WHITEHALL. 

I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  your  Majesty,  praised  be  God,  so 
long  as  your  Majesty  is  an  honest  man. — King  Hewry  V. 

THE  great  gallery  at  Whitehall  presented  that  evening 
its  usual  aspect  of  splendor,  gayety,  and  vice.  It  was 
ablaze  with  candles,  and  crowded  with  people,  who,  in 
their  rich  and  gay-colored  clothes,  made  the  place  look 
like  an  immense  flower-garden.  Gostling,  the  celebrated 
bass,  was  singing  a  song  which  no  modern  audience  would 
tolerate,  and  Signer  Giovanni  Baptista  Draghi — dubbed 
for  convenience  sake  "  John  Baptist " — was  accompanying 
him  on  the  harpsichord.  A  number  of  courtiers  were  ait- 


66  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ting  round  a  table  playing  at  basset,  with  an  immense  pile 
of  gold  before  them.  The  queen  with  two  of  her  ladies  sat 
apart,  playing  her  favorite  game  of  ombre.  A  group  of 
idlers  clustered  together  in  one  corner  to  listen  to  the  latest 
lampoon.  The  rest  talked,  jested,  flirted,  and  made  merry. 
The  place  was  very  hot  ;  coming  indeed  from  the  sharp 
November  air  outside  it  seemed  to  Hugo  stifling  ;  also 
there  was  something  about  the  moral  atmosphere  which 
always  oppressed  him.  He  was  never  happy  at  Whitehall, 
never  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings.  These  people  lived 
such  a  different  life,  thought  such  different  thoughts,  cared 
for  such  different  things,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  find 
anything  in  common  with  them,  nor  did  he  trouble  himself 
to  try  much,  he  was  too  young,  and  at  present  too  well- 
satisfied  with  a  quiet,  studious  "  laissez-aller  "  kind  of  life. 
That  he  owed  any  sort  of  duty  to  those  he  met  did  not 
occur  to  him.  He  went  to  Whitehall  because  it  was  his 
brother's  wish  ;  he  sung  his  best,  to  please  Randolph  ;  he 
was  quiet  and  courteous,  because  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  be  anything  but  a  perfect  gentleman  ;  and  he  never, 
even  at  home,  showed  his  dislike  to  the  Whitehall  evenings, 
because  he  was  philosophic,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  taking 
things  calmly.  But  the  people  ho  met  were  to  him  only 
like  the  puppets  in  a  show,  and  puppets  of  whom  he  rather 
wearied.  He  rarely  considered  them  as  actual  men  and 
women. 

In  spite  of  this  he  was,  strangely  enough,  already  a  fa- 
vorite at  the  court.  People  liked  him  because  he  was 
original,  and  not  quite  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  fresh 
and  unspoiled,  and  void  of  the  smallest  particle  of  conceit. 
They  amused  themselves  with  seeing  how  he  would  take 
things,  how  he  would  dexterously  avoid  singing  some 
lewd  song,  even  when  the  king  asked  for  it,  how  he 
would  adroitly  parry  the  questionable  jests  of  the  wits,  how 
above  all  he  adored  his  brother,  and  cared  for  nothing  so 
long  as  he  was  secure  of  his  approval. 

This  evening,  as  usual,  it  was  not  toward  the  king  that 
he  looked  with  any  apprehension.  He  looked  instead  at 
Randolph  to  see  whether  he  were  vexed  at  his  delay.  He 
had,  it  is  true,  made  all  speed  from  Sir  William  Denham's, 
had  rushed  into  his  court  dress  in  the  space  of  ten  min- 
utes, and  had  hurried  to  Whitehall  as  fast  as  possible. 
But  then  there  was  no  knowing  how  slow  Jeremiah  might 
have  been  in  bringing  the  message,  for  if  there  was  one 
place  the  old  servant  hated  his  coming  to  it  was  the  court. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  67 

Randolph  was  standing  not  far  from  the  king  among  a 
group  of  courtiers,  idly  leaning  against  the  pedestal  of  a 
statue,  and  combing  his  periwig  with  a  large  tortoise-shell 
comb,  a  way  of  killing  time  which  was  then  much  in  vogue. 
He  looked  as  usual,  handsome,  discontented  and  btjtse. 
Was  he  vexed  ?  Hugo  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and 
Randolph,  who  had  long  been  watching  for  his  arrival,  met 
his  gaze,  scanned  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  at 
any  rate  no  more  discontented  than  before.  There  was  not 
the  ominous  contraction  of  the  forehead  which  Hugo  hated 
to  cause.  He  breathed  more  freely,  and  advanced  toward 
the  king,  following  the  usher.  Randolph  watched  him 
critically.  A  tall,  slim,  graceful  figure  in  dark-blue  velvet, 
laced  with  gold,  a  manner  devoid  entirely  of  courtier-like 
subservience  and  adulation — a  markedly  quiet  manner,  just 
escaping  nonchalance,  however,  by  a  sort  of  inborn  dignity. 

Charles  was  seated  on  a  sort  of  ottoman,  lounging 
between  two  of  his  mistresses,  on  his  right  hand  the  beauti- 
ful Mrs.  Gwynne,  and  on  his  left  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
land, one  of  the  most  deparaved  women  of  the  time.  Hugo 
came  as  near  to  hating  her  as  he  was  capable  of  hating  any- 
body ;  he  loathed  the  thought  that  she  held  Randolph  in 
bondage,  loathed  the  thought  that  he  was  but  one  of  her 
innumerable  slaves,  and  if  he  made  light  of  the  matter  to 
old  Jeremiah  it  was  not  because  he  thought  lightly  of  it. 

"  You  are  late,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,"  said  Charles,  with  a 
good  natured  smile,  extending  his  hand,  which  the  young 
Templar  knelt  to  kiss. 

"  Sire,"  replied  Hugo,  "  I  made  all  speed  on  receiving 
your  gracious  message,  but  I  was  absent  when  it  arrived." 

"  Making  merry  with  the  rioters  in  Fleet  Street,  I'll  be 
bound !"  said  Charles,  laughing.  "  Was  it  not  so,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  my  liege,  I  was  at  Sir  William  Denham's." 

"What!  he  that  is  a  member  of  the  Royal  Society?  I 
remember  him,  a  learned  man,  and  methinks  he  has  a 
pretty  niece,  who  is  a  notable  heiress.  I  have  torn  him 
away,  J°u  see,"  turning  to  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  "  from 
much  more  agreeable  society.  Was  the  fair  maiden  wroth 
with  me  ?" 

"Your  majesty  is  wholly  mistaken,"  said  Hugo,  coloring. 

"  What !  can  you  deny  that  you  were  sorry  to  leave  ?" 
said  the  king,  laughing  at  his  face  of  embarrassment. 

"  There  was  in  truth  a  guest  of  whom  I  would  fain  have 
seen  more,"  said  Hugo,  with  the  transparent  honesty  which 
made  him  so  refreshing. 


68  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Who  was  that  ?  Let  us  hear  all  about  her  ?  A  blonde 
or  a  brunette  ?" 

*'  It  was  no  lady,  your  majesty  ;  it  was  merely  a  friend  of 
Sir  William  Denham's." 

"  I  must  know  the  name  of  my  rival,  whose  presence  was 
more  to  be  desired  than  an  evening  at  my  court." 

Hugo  looked  troubled. 

"  His  name,  sire,  was  Colonel  Sidney,"  he  replied,  after 
a  brief  pause. 

The  king  started. 

"  Upon  my  soul !  young  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  are 
very  bold  to  mention  that  man  in  my  presence." 

"  It  was  at  your  majesty's  request,"  said  Hugo,  respect- 
fully, but  with  a  sort  of  grave  dignity. 

Charles  smiled. 

"  'Tis  true,  and  "I  like  you  better  for  not  being  an  adept 
at  lying  yet  awhile.  After  all,  there's  something  naive  in  an 
honest  man  nowadays.  There !  a  jest  for  you,  ladies ! 
When  does  an  honest  man  become  a  knave  ?  When  hon- 
esty is  so  old-fashioned  that  it  has  a  naive  appearance." 

He  grew  thoughtful  for  a  minute,  and  the  lines  in  his 
hard-featured  face  deepened,  while  he  toyed  absently  with 
three  spaniel  puppies  on  his  knee. 

"And  so  you  would  fain  have  seen  more  of  Colonel  Sid- 
ney ?"  he  said,  looking  curiously  at  the  young  Templar. 

"  Yes,  your  majesty,"  replied  Hugo,  lifting  his  quiet  gray 
eyes  to  the  king's. 

"And  why,  pray  ?" 

"He  seemed  to  me  a  man  of  great  power,  a  very  noble 
man,  my  liege." 

"Are  you  aware  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
men  in  the  country?  That  he  rebelled  against  the  blessed 
martyr?  That  he  would  fain  establish  a  gloomy  republic 
in  this  merry  England  of  ours  ?" 

"Sire,"  said  Hugo,  rendered  uneasy  by  the  consciousness 
that  Randolph  was  listening  disapprovingly  to  every  word 
he  uttered,  yet  sturdily  determined  that  nothing  should 
make  him  false  to  Sidney — "Sire,  I  know  very  little  of  such 
matters,  but  one  thing  I  can  not  doubt,  and  that  is  that,  be 
his  views  what  they  may,  Colonel  Sidney  is  a  noble  gentle- 
man." 

"  There  is  not  another  man  in  all  England  who  would 
have  the  courage  to  tell  me  that  to  my  face,"  said  Charles, 
musing.  "  Well,  lad,  I  would  have  you  be  truer  to  me 
than  Colonel  Sidney  has  been,  for  in  faith  I  have  but 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  69 

few  followers  so  brave  and  outspoken.  But  enough  of  this 
— go  sing  me  one  of  your  songs." 

Hugo  obeyed,  feeling  thankful  enough  to  have  the  con- 
versation ended.  It  is  not  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  speak  out  bravely  in  defense  of  an  unpopular  person,  ;ind 
to  incur  Randolph's  displeasure  was  always  keenly  painful 
to  Hugo.  With  a  very  heavy  heart,  which  could  in  nowise 
be  elated  by  the  king's  compliment,  he  crossed  over  to  the 
harpsichord,  and  handed  his  song  to  Signor  "John  Bap- 
tist," who  was  to  accompany  him.  The  same  song  which 
but  an  hour  ago  he  had  sung  at  the  Denham's  house,  to 
how  different  an  assembly !  He  sung  several  times  and  was 
warmly  applauded.  After  his  last  song  he  looked  round 
apprehensively  for  his  brother,  but  Randolph  had  disap- 
peared and  the  king,  too,  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Could  he  have  looked  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  where 
Charles  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  those  who  de- 
sired private  interviews,  he  would  have  seen  his  sovereign 
and  his  guardian  deep  in  conversation,  laying  a  scheme 
which  was  to  cost  him  dear. 

"  You  say  the  lad  is  absolutely  obedient,  that  you  could 
trust  him  with  anything  ?" 

"  Absolutely,  your  majesty.  I  have  trained  him  to  be  of 
use,  and  to  serve  my  ends.  He  will  not  question  aught 
that  I  bid  him  do."  ' 

"  Then,  if  that  is  so,  it  were  no  bad  plan  that  he  should 
learn  to  know  this  traitor  ;  I  hear  he  has  great  influence 
with  young  men.  Let  him  get  hand-and  glove  with  him, 
trusted  with  his  secrets  and  so  forth,  and  then  when  the 
right  time  comes  do  you  make  him  reveal  all  to  yourself. 
You  think  you  can  do  this?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it,  my  liege. 

"  You  are  very  much  more  confident  than  I  am,"  said  the 
king,  thoughtfully.  "  He  seemed  to  me  just  now  by  no 
means  so  docile  and  yielding  as  you  deem  him." 

"  Your  majesty  will  pardon  his  awkwardness,  that  was  but 
his  lack  of  court  training." 

"  In  dishonesty,"  said  the  king,  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"  Moreover,"  continued  Randolph,  stung  by  this  remark, 
"it  is  possible,  if  your  majesty  will  pardon  my  saying  such 
a  thing,  that  he  would  reveal  to  myself  what  he  would  not 
reveal  to  your  majesty." 

"  Which  in  plain  English  means  that  you  are  the  greater 
bully.  Well,  I  willingly  concede  you  the  palm ! " 

He  laughed;  Randolph  smiled  a  mechanical  court  smile. 


70  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Of  course  it  rests  with  you,  my  liege.  If  it  will  further 
your  ends,  I  will  gladly  let  the  boy  associate  with  Colonel 
Sidney;  all  we  desire  is  to  be  of  service  to  your  majesty." 

"  Then  be  it  so,"  said  the  king.  "  Let  us  lay  this  attrac- 
tive net  for  my  enemy." 

They  returned  to  the  gallery;  the  king  looked  a  little 
regretfully  at  Hugo,  who  was  to  be  made  an  unconscious 
tool,  and  used  for  work  which  he  would  abhor.  But  in 
another  minute  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  matter,  and 
was  jesting  with  the  beautiful  and  witty  Duchess  of  Maza- 
rine, who  was  at  that  time  high  in  his  favor. 

Randolph,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  made  his  way 
to  the  place  where  Hugo  was  standing,  apparently  listen- 
ing to  Gostling's  song,  but  in  reality  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts. 

"  Take  a  turn  with  me,"  said  Eandolph,  "  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  you. " 

Under  cover  of  the  music,  and  the  general  roar  of  con- 
versation, which  was  not  much  abated  even  by  the  singing 
of  the  celebrated  bass,  the  two  brothers  paced  the  gallery, 
practically  as  much  in  private  as  in  their  own  chambers. 

"You  managed  well  just  now,"  began  Eandolph.  "I 
feared  that  you  would  ruin  your  reputation  with  the  king 
but  luckily  for  you  he  took  all  in  good  part." 

Hugo  was  much  relieved,  he  had  expected  something 
very  different  from  Eandolph. 

His  brother  continued. 

"  You  have  done  very  well  indeed,  I  felt  proud  of  you. 
Honesty  is  at  times  the  best  policy,  there  is  no  question  of 
that.  But  just  one  word  of  caution.  I  don't  object  to  your 
following  up  the  acquaintance  which  you  have  made  to- 
night at  the  Denhams,  only  mention  not  that  unpopular 
name  more  than  need  be.  You  only  harm  both  yourself 
and  him  by  bringing  his  name  into  notice.  Do  you  under- 
stand T 

"  Ay,"  said  Hugo.  "  I  will  be  careful.  And  you  do  not 
indeed  object  to  my  meeting  him  again  ?  He  said  he  must 
see  more  of  me,  and  I  would  fain  know  him  better,  for  in- 
deed, sir,  he  is  a  great  man,  the  greatest  man  I  ever  met." 

Eandolph  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Well,  well,  have  a  care.  Sing  his  praises  to  me  as 
much  as  you  will,  but  to  the  world  without  hold  your 
tongue.  I  doubt  not  he  is  an  able  man,  he  has  traveled 
much,  and  knows  the  world." 

"  Who  is  that  beautiful  girl  standing  near  the  harpsi- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  71 

chord  ?"  asked  Hugo,  diverted  from  all  thoughts  of  Sidney 
by  a  face  which  somehow  reminded  him  of  Joyce. 

"  Her  in  rose-colored  satin,  mean  you  ?  That  is  the  little 
Duchess  of  Grafton,  Lord  Arlington's  daughter." 

"  What,  is  she  married  already  ?" 

"  Ay,  she  was  married  at  five  years  old,  and  remarried  at 
twelve  to  one  of  his  majesty's  sons.  I'll  get  her  mother-in- 
law  to  introduce  you  to  her. " 

Hugo  could  not  make  any  objection,  though  it  seemed  to 
him  a  sort  of  sacrilege  to  owe  an  introduction  to  such  a 
girl  to  the  favor  of  such  a  woman. 

"They  will  just  suit  each  other,"  said  the  Duchess  of 
Cleveland,  when  Eandolph  had  preferred  his  request. 
"  The  two  court  innocents  !  I  marvel  they  had  not  become 
acquainted  long  eince.  My  love,"  turning  to  the  young 
girl  who  was  standing  close  by  her,  and  had  already  colored 
deeply  at  the  disagreeable,  bantering  tone — "my  love,  let 
me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  a  paragon  of 
virtue,  I  assure  you." 

The  girl  courtesied,  Hugo  bowed  low  ;  they  were  both 
of  them  too  young  not  to  be  a  good  deal  discomposed  by 
this  uncomfortable  introduction  ;  Hugo  almost  fancied  he 
saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  duchess,  and  this  made 
him  quickly  recover  his  equanimity  that  he  might  come  to 
her  rescue. 

"  Signor  John  Baptist  is  a  skillful  player,  is  he  not  ?"  he 
remarked.  "  I  had  not  heard  him  before  this  evening." 

She  looked  grateful  to  him  for  promptly  starting  so  easy 
a  topic. 

"In  truth,"  she  said,  glancing  round  to  see  that  her 
mother-in-law  was  safely  out  of  hearing,  "  the  music  is  the 
sole  thing  that  makes  this  place  tolerable.  I  love  not 
Whitehall,  and  you,  methinks,  agree  with  me  in  that  dis- 
loyal sentiment." 

She  smiled,  with  a  mixture  of  humor  and  pathos  which 
enchanted  him. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Hugo,  meditatively,  "  'twould  scarcely 
do  to  live  only  among  one's  books.  I  should  have  lost 
much  indeed  this  night  had  not  my  friend  Denham  ruth- 
lessly carried  me  off." 

"  Is  that  a  kinsman  of  Mistress  Mary  Denham  ?" 

"  It  is  her  cousin." 

"  I  know  Mistress  Mary  Denham  well,  and  methinks  I 
have  heard  her  mention  you.  Are  you  not  he  who  found 
Sir  William  Denham  that  rare  plant  of  which  he  wanted  a 
specimen  ?" 


72  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  We  chanced  upon  it  in  Suffolk,  a  few  weeks 
said  Hugo,  "returning  from  the  Newmarket  races.  But 
indeed  it  is  as  much  due  to  Rupert  Deiiham  as  to  me,  for 
he  found  it  a  second  time  when  I  had  lost  it." 

The  little  duchess  looked  at  him  with  a  pleased  look. 
She  had  heard  the  whole  story,  and  knew  that  the  plant 
had  been  lost  because  the  elder  brother  had  snatched  it 
away  in  a  passion  and  thrown  it  into  a  wayside  copse.  She 
liked  him  greatly  for  keeping  silence  about  that  part  of  the 
matter. 

"  Mr.  Evelyn  told  me  once  that  the  king  has  in  his  libra- 
ry a  curious  book  on  botany  with  rare-colored  plates. 
Would  you  care  to  see  it  ?" 

"  I  should  like  it  greatly,  if  it  were  possible,"  said  Hugo. 
"  But  I  could  not  ask  any  favor  of  the  king  to-night." 

"But  I  will  ask;  it  will  give  him  pleasure,  for  he  is 
always  pleased  to  see  his  subjects  lovers  of  science.  See  ! 
he  is  at  liberty  now,  I  will  ask  his  permission." 

She  walked  gracefully  toward  the  king  and  made  her  re- 
quest, to  which  he  at  once  acceded,  but  as  usual  could  not 
forbear  making  one  of  his  jests. 

"  Go,  by  all  means  ;  one  of  the  ushers  will  show  you  the 
way.  And  we  won't  say  anything  of  a  duenna,  since  he  is 
such  a  handsome  spark.  Odds  fish !  she  blushes  like  a 
carnation !  art  in  love  with  the  young  scapegrace  already, 
I'll  be  bound." 

But  the  prudent  little  duchess  had  learned  enough  of  the 
world  to  take  very  good  care  tbat  a  staid  old  court  lady 
accompanied  them  when  they  left  the  gallery,  with  the 
usher  in  advance  to  pilot  them  through  the  maze  of  rooms 
and  passages.  The  man  bore  a  lamp  which  dimly  revealed 
to  them  the  costly  furniture  and  the  rich  hangings  of  tbe 
rooms  through  which  they  passed.  It  was  not,  however, 
till  an  exclamation  escaped  Hugo  that  they  paused  in  their 
onward  way. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried.  "  Bring  the  light  nearer,  sir,  an  you 
will.  ,What  is  this  beautiful  picture  ?" 

They  were  in  a  room  which  was  filled  with  all  kinds  of 
curious  clocks,  watches,  and  pendules,  Charles  being  fond 
of  all  clever  mechanism  ;  there  were  also  several  beauti- 
ful pictures,  and  Hugo  had  paused  before  one  representing 
the  appearance  of  our  Lord,  after  His  resurrection,  to  Mary 
Magdalene." 

"'Tis  the  'Noli  me  tangere'  of  Hans  Holbein,"  said  the 
usher,  "  and  worth  any  money,  they  say." 

He  went  on  talking  and  criticising,  but  luckily  addressed 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  73 

all  his  remarks  to  tlie  duenna  ;  as  for  Hugo  and  the  little 
duchess,  they  could  neither  of  them  have  spoken,  for  the 
unspeakable  reverence,  the  sort  of  heavenly  astonishment 
expressed  in  the  picture  seemed  to  have  taken  posession  of 
them.  In  that  silence  somehow  they  learned  to  know  each 
other ;  they  had  begun,  though  they  did  not  know  it,  a 
life-long  friendship. 

"This  is  the  library,"  said  the  usher,  flinging  open  a  door 
close  by. 

They  entered,  and  found  what  for  that  age  was  a  large 
collection  of  books,  numbering  perhaps  a  thousand  vol- 
umes. Some  of  them  were  richly  bound,  and  embossed 
with  gold,  but  the  particular  book  which  they  had  come  to 
see  was  in  manuscript,  a  great  quarto  over  three  hundred 
years  old  and  written  in  French.  The  plants  were  most 
curiously  painted  in  miniature,  and  Hugo  was  delighted  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  going  through  them,  while  the  lit- 
tle duchess,  though  only  fifteen,  displayed  so  much  intelli- 
gence, and  such  an  eagerness  to  learn  from  him  all  that  he 
could  tell  her,  that  she  doubled  his  pleasure. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me,"  she  said  to  him  when  they 
parted,  "  at  my  father's  house.  Then  some  day  you  must 
be  introduced  to  Mr.  Evelyn,  who  often  comes  there.  He 
would  like  to  know  you,  I  feel  sure,  and  I  ever  long  for  all 
whom  I  like  to  know  him,  for  he  is  so  learned  and  so  good." 

Thus  ended  what  had  proved  for  Hugo  an  eventful 
evening. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

Sometimes  hath  the  brightest  day  a  cloud  ; 
And  after  summer  ever  more  succeeds 
Barren  winter,  with  its  wrathful  nipping  cold  ; 
So  cares  and  joys  abound  as  seasons  fleet. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

I,  JOYCE  WHARNCLIFFE,  have  determined  for  three  reasons 
to  write  down  from  time  to  time  what  I  can  remember  of 
our  life  at  Mondisfield.  The  first  of  these  reasons  is  that 
things  are  really  beginning  to  happen  so  fast — and  we 
never  believed  till  now  that  anything  would  happen,  only 
that  each  day  would  go  on  much  like  the  one  before,  with 


74  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Sundays  to  keep  us  from  getting  too  monotonous.  The 
eecoud  reason  is  that,  since  the  fifth  of  October,  when  the 
duel  was  fought  outside  the  park,  Evelyn  and  I  have  felt 
dull  somehow,  and  as  if  just  the  first  seeing  of  that  bad 
man,  and  the  seeing  of  how  our  brave  "knight"  fought 
with  him,  had  made  it  quite  impossible  for  us  to  go  back 
to  our  old  ways,  fancying  stories,  and  acting  people's 
lives  in  our  own.  Somehow  things  got  real  to  us  on  that 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  then  the  Sunday  following,  when 
the  congregation  had  to  disperse  all  in  haste,  and  when  we 
were  in  terror  lest  our  dear  father  should  be  arrested,  that 
made  life  seem  still  more  real. 

It  puzzles  me  a  little  that,  though  it  has  at  last  begun  to 
feel  so  very  real  to  me,  yet  I  do  not  like  a  bit  better  to  be 
what  Elizabeth  calls  "  useful  in  the  house."  The  books  will 
seem  still  to  me  realer  than  the  puddings,  and  the  preserves, 
and  the  dairy-work,  and  the  needle-work.  I  said  so  to 
Elizabeth  to-day,  but  dear  Betty,  though  she  is  so  wise, 
does  not  seem  to  understand  at  all  what  books  do  for  one. 
She  came  to  me  in  the  north  parlor,  and  said: 

"Oh,  Joyce,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  idle  away  your  time  with 
vain  poems  and  plays." 

I  was  reading  Shakespeare's  story  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
It  was  a  pity  it  was  not  one  of  his  historical  plays,  because 
that  would  have  been  easier  to  argue  from,  and  certainly  it 
did  seem,  perhaps,  a  little  like  wasting  time  to  be  reading 
a  love-tale.  I  read  it  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  Romeo 
might  have  been  like  our  knight — he  did  fight  two  duels — 
and  he  was  young,  and  brave,  and  handsome." 

"  But,"  I  said  to  Betty,  "  it  gives  one  so  many  thoughts 
to  read  books,  and  that  makes  one  happy.  Whereas,  to 
make  puddings  and  preserves  gives  one  no  thoughts  at  all." 

"No  thoughts!"  cried  Betty.  "No  thoughts  in  making 
a  pudding.  Why,  you  have  to  keep  thinking  all  the  time." 

"  You  have  to  keep  worrying,  '  Have  I  put  enough  sugar? 
Is  there  too  much  dough  ?  Will  it  be  heavy  ?  How  long 
must  it  boil?"  I  said,  laughing.  "But  I  don't  call  that 
thinking." 

"  I  call  it  thinking  to  some  purpose,"  said  Betty,  with 
that  vexed  look  which  she  always  has  when  I  say  what  she 
thinks  unpractical  things.  "  Who  is  the  better  for  your 
reading  of  books,  and  your  thinking  of  thoughts  that  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  house,  cr  with  anything  that  is  of 
use  ?  " 

I  was  silenced  by  that.    For,  when  one  comes  to  think  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  75 

it,  who  is  the  better  for  it  because  I  read  Mr.  Milton's 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  or  "  Komeo  and  Juliet,"  or  "  The  Temp- 
est," or  even  graver  books  ? 

"  What  have  you  to  show  for  this  whole  hour  that  you 
have  been  reading  ?  "  she  went  on.  "  Whereas  if  you  had 
been  busy  in  the  kitchen,  you  might  have  had  a  pile  of 
manchets  ready  for  the  morrow,  or  you  might  have  made 
griddle-cakes  for  every  one's  supper.'* 

I  only  felt  that  I  had  got  something  frc  m  the  reading, 
but  whether  it  was  a  thing  which  could  be  shown  definitely, 
like  a  manchet  or  a  griddle-cake,  I  was  doubtful.  Yet  it 
was  to  me,  after  all,  more  real  than  either. 

"  It  makes  the  world  feel  bigger  when  one  reads,"  I  said, 
at  last.  "  It  makes  you  see  how  little  you  know,  and  what 
a  great  number  of  things  there  are  to  know.  And,  oh ! 
Betty !  " — I  could  have  danced  with  delight  at  having  at 
length  got  hold  of  the  right  argument — "  your  pudding  is 
made,  and  eaten,  and  there's  an  end  of  it  ;  but  the  book  is 
read,  and  stays  always,  and  makes  one  happy,  and  teaches 
one  things,  and  there's  never  any  end  to  it." 

"  It  is  selfish,"  said  Betty.  "  For  you  see  it  is  only  your- 
self that  is  made  better,  after  all.  Whereas  the  pudding 
would  have  been  for  every  one's  dinner,  and  the  manchets 
for  every  one's  breakfast,  and  the  griddle  cakes  for  every 
one's  supper." 

This  seemed  to  me  unanswerable.  I  felt  very  unhappy. 
Could  it  be  wrong  to  read  ?  If  so,  why  did  so  many  great 
and  good  people  write  books  ? 

Father  had  been  tying  up  a  climbing  rose  just  by  the  win- 
dow, and  he  must  have  heard  what  we  were  saying,  for  just 
then  he  came  in. 

"  You  foolish  children,"  he  said.  "One  of  you  talks  as  if  you 
were  all  body  and  no  mind,  and  the  other  as  though  you 
were  all  mind  and  no  body.  Books,  Betty,  are  food  for  the 
mind,  and  it  is  no  more  selfish  to  spend  time  over  reading 
them  than  to  spend  time  in  eating,  sleeping  and  walking 
for  the  good  of  your  body.  Nay,  it  is  quite  as  wrong, 
perhaps  more  wrong,  to  neglect  the  feeding  of  your  mind 
as  to  neglect  the  healthful  keeping  of  your  body.  The 
stronger  and  better  fed  the  mind,  the  more  use  will  it  be. 
to  other  people,  sooner  or  later.  As  for  you,  my  little  Joy," 
he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  my  head,  "  you  will  be  a  wise 
maid,  and  let  no  day  pass  without  doing  something  in 
the  house  to  help  your  mother.  For,  look  you.  what  would 
come  to  us  all  if  Betty  were  to  marry  ?  Or  how  would  you 


76  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

order  your  husband's  house,  if  you  knew  naught  of  house- 
wifery ?" 

I  have  written  this  all  down,  even  our  silly  talk,  because 
I  wanted  always  to  remember  what  my  father  said.  I  shall 
think  of  it  always  when  I  mind  being  called  away  to  the 
kitchen,  but  somehow  I  don't  think  I  shall  mind  again. 

Would  Juliet  have  managed  her  husband's  house  well,  I 
wonder,  if  her  story  had  not  ended  so  sadly  ?  She  was  just 
as  old  as  I  am. 

I  have  been  a  long  time  coming  to  my  third  reason  for 
writing   our   recollections.      The   third  reason  is  that   a 
dreadful  thought  has  come  to  me,  or  rather  was  given  to 
me  by  my  father— that  perhaps  Mondisfield  might  not  long 
be  ours.     How  I  came  to  hear  about  it  was  in  this  way. 
The  others  were  all  in  the  orchard  at  the  apple-gathering. 
I  was  to  go  too,  but  had  not  quite  finished  my  morning's 
spinning.     The  spinning  is  the  house-work  I  mind  doing 
least.     It  i*  not  at  all  sticky  and  greasy,  like  the  cakes  and 
puddings,  and  you  need  not  keep  worrying  about  it  like 
other  kinds  of  work;  it  is  a  sort   of  steady  going  on,  just 
as  monotonous   as  the   whir   of  the  wheel,  and  I  like  it 
because  one  can  think  about  other  things  at  the  same  time. 
Nurse  had  let  me  take  my  spinning-wheel  into  the  musi- 
cian's gallery,  which  has  always  been  my  own  special  part 
of  the  house.     It  is  only  used  by  other  people  once  a  year, 
though  in  old  times,  they  say,  the  musicians  played  every 
evening  while  the  family  were  at  supper,  and  often  there 
were  dances.      We  do  not  often  dance,   father's   friends 
mostly  think  it  wrong.     But  he  likes  us  to  dance  by  our- 
selves, and  once  a  year — that  is  on  the  twelfth  of  May,  which 
is  his  birthday,  and  Elizabeth's  too — we  have  a  great  festi- 
val day,  and  real  musicians  come  from  St.  Edmondsbury,  and 
we  have  songs,  and  country-dances,  and  a  dinner  for  all  the 
tenants.     Some  people  wonder  at  father  for  doing  this,  but 
he  says  that  all  extremes  are  bad,  and  that,  perchance,  had 
the  Commonwealth  been  less  strict  about  the  amusements, 
the  people  would  not  have  been  so  eager  to  get  back  the 
king  and  his  wicked  court.    And  once  I  even  heard  him  tell 
a  grave  and  learned  minister  that  so  long  as  the  hundred 
and  fiftieth  psalm  found  place  in  the  Bible,  his  daughters 
should  enjoy  both  timbrel  and  dance  in  moderation,  only 
he   would  ever  have  an  eye  to  the  company  they  mixed 
with. 

Well,  I  was   sitting  with  my  spinning-wheel  in  the  old 
gallery,  when  all  at  once,  above  the  whir,  I  heard  a  sharp 


fij  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  77 

sound  as  of  something  snapping  asunder.  Looking  across 
to  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  where  the  sound  came  from,  I 
saw  that  the  picture  of  the  little  boy  with  the  dog,  which 
hangs  high  up  above  the  north  parlor-etoor  and  exactly 
facing  my  gallery,  was  falling  down.  The  string  had 
snapped,  and  I  could  do  nothing — nothing  but  just  watch 
it,  as  it  fell  to  the  ground,  making  a  great  crash  on  the 
white  flag-stones.  When  it  was  down  I  ran  out  of  the  gal- 
lery, through  the  little  room  beyond,  and  down  the  steep 
little  staircase,  then  hurried  out  beyond  the  screen  and 
through  the  hall  till  I  had  reached  the  picture. 

Its  frame  was  badly  broken,  and  in  many  places  the  gold 
had  chipped  off,  but  the  portrait  itself  was  not  hurt.  I 
looked  at  it  curiously,  for  it  was  too  small  a  picture  to  be 
seen  very  well  at  a  distance,  and  my  idea  of  the  little  boy 
had  been  always  somewhat  vague.  I  do  not  know  why, 
but  as  a  little  girl  I  well  remember  having  a  strange  terror 
of  this  picture.  It  always  seemed  to  be  looking  at  me,  and 
on  dusky  evenings  in  summer,  or,  worse  still,  on  dark 
nights  in  winter,  by  the  dim  lamplight,  I  used  to  rush 
through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to  bed,  absolutely  trembling 
at  the  thought  of  those  eyes  which  would  follow  me.  That 
of  course  was  long  ago.  I  almost  laughed  at  the  thought 
now,  for  on  a  nearer  and  soberer  view  it  was  such  a  harm- 
less sort  of  picture.  A  little,  innocent,  dark-eyed  babe  of 
two  or  three  years,  in  a  tight  white  cap,  a  long  white  pin- 
ner, and  bishop  sleeves.  In  one  hand  it  grasped  a  rattle, 
with  the  other  it  patted  a  little  spaniel.  The  whole  atti- 
tude was  stiff  and  quaint — indeed,  it  was  hard  to  tell 
whether  he  was  sitting,  or  standing,  or  leaning.  Once  more 
I  turned  the  picture  over  as  it  had  fallen.  On  the  back  of 
the  canvas  was  painted  a  name  in  large  black  characters, 

HUGO  WHABNCLIFFE, 

and  down  below,  written  in  my  father's  writing — "  This 
picture  was  saved  from  the  Great  Fire  of  London,  in  the 
year  of  grace  1666." 

Who  was  Hugo  Wharncliffe?  Had  we  ever  had  a 
brother  of  whom  I  had  never  heard  ?  That  seemed  scarcely 
possible.  As  I  wondered,  my  father  passed  through  the 
hall,  and  seeing  that  the  picture  had  fallen,  came  to  see 
how  far  it  was  injured. 

"Father,"  I  said,  "  who  is  this  boy?  Who  is  Hugo 
Wharncliffe  ?  Had  we  ever  a  brother  ?" 

"  Never,  my  child,"  he  replied,  sadly.  "  This  is  the 
potrait  of  a  very  distant  kinsman  of  yours,  brother  to  him 


78  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

who  is  heir-at-law,  and  will  at  my  death  take  possession  of 
this  house." 

My  heart  almost  stopped  beating. 

"What!"  I  *ried,  "will  Mondisfield  belong  to  us  no 
more?  I  thought  it  was  ours  for  always?" 

My  father  smiled,  and  explained  to  me  that,  as  he  had  no 
son,  the  property  went  to  the  next  male,  one  Randolph 
Wharncliffe. 

"  But  how  came  you  by  this  picture,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That,"  said  my  father,  "  is  a  long  story  ;  however,  you 
shall  hear  it.  I  loved  this  lad's  mother  well ;  she  was  a 
noble  lady,  and  would  have  brought  up  her  son  virtuously 
had  she  lived.  She  died,  poor  lady,  in  the  plague  year  ;  out 
of  the  whole  household  were  left  but  three — Randolph,  the 
eldest,  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty,  this  little  lad  here, 
whose  portrait  was  scarce  finished  and  yet  in  the  artist's 
hands  at  the  time,  and  one  servant.  Being  in  London  in 
the  August  of  the  year  following  when  the  pestilence  was 
somewhat  abated,  I  was  one  day  waited  on  by  the  artist,  who, 
hearing  that  I  was  head  of  the  Wharncliffe  family,  called  to 
explain  to  me  how  matters  were  with  regard  to  this  picture. 
It  had  been  ordered,  it  seems,  by  the  little  lad's  mother, 
who  was  since  dead  ;  the  brother  would  not  take  the  pic- 
ture, or  pay  anything  toward  the  expense,  saying  merely 
he  had  not  ordered  it.  To  argue  with  him  was  of  no  avail, 
and,  sooner  than  have  our  name  dishonored,  I  paid  the 
artist  myself,  and  brought  the  picture  to  my  rooms  in  the 
city.  That  day  se'n-night  broke  out  the  great  fire,  and 
how  I  escaped  with  all  my  goods  you  have  oftentimes  heard. 
I  wrote  it  on  the  back  of  the  canvas,  as  you  see,  so  that 
this  lad's  descendants  may  prize  the  picture  accordingly  as 
a  relic." 

"  His  descendants !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  father,  I  ever 
thought  we  should  live  here,  and  after  that  our  children, 
not  other  people's." 

"  It  can  not  be,  little  Joy.  And,  after  all,  why  should 
we  look  to  the  future  ?  Set  your  heart  on  nothing,  child  ; 
for  indeed  it  is  well  if  I  hold  this  place  through  my  life- 
time. Randolph  Wharncliffe,  they  tell  me,  hath  great  in- 
fluence at  court,  and  he  accounts  me  his  bitterest  foe." 

"  You,  father !  How  can  he  make  a  foe  of  you  ?"  I  said, 
looking  up  into  his  grave,  quiet,  strong  face.  How,  indeed, 
could  any  one  help  loving  and  revering  him  ? 

" It  is  in  this  way,  child,"  said  my  father.  "He  is  one  of 
the  Sussex  Wharncliffes,  and  lost  his  estates,  or  rather  his 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  79 

father  lost  his  estates,  in  the  time  of  the  civil  war.  These 
he  has  never  recovered,  though  he  would  fain  have  done  so 
at  the  Restoration.  Can  you  not  understand,  then,  that  it 
is  bitter  for  him  to  see  one  of  the  Suffolk  Wharncliffes,  who 
fought  against  the  late  king,  still  peacefully  enjoying  his 
property?  Could  he  get  rid  of  me,  he  would,  you  see,  come 
into  this  estate  at  once.  And,  Joyce,  these  are  evil  times, 
and  I  hold  unpopular  opinions.  You  must  not  set  your 
heart,  dear  child,  on  a  quiet  life  here." 

I  looked  at  the  innocent  little  babe  in  the  picture  and 
wondered  what  this  unknown  kinsman  of  mine  would  be 
like  now. 

"Would  this  cousin  be  your  enemy  too?"  I  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"  He  would  certainly  hold  his  brother's  views  of  the  mat- 
ter," said  my  father.  "  'Tis  many  years  since  I  saw  him, 
but  I  remember  well  that  he  was  like  the  little  shadow  of 
his  brother,  following  him  everywhere,  and  obeying  him 
most  implicitly.  It  was  most  touching,  I  remember,  to  no- 
tice his  devotion  to  one  who  treated  him  but  roughly.  Poor 
lad!  he  stands  a  bad  chance  with  such  a  training." 

"Does  he,  too,  go  to  the  court?"  I  asked. 

"  I  should  think  it  very  probable,"  said  my  father  ;  and 
with  that  he  went  away,  to  leave  me  a  new  subject  for  day- 
dreams. Evelyn  and  I  talked  about  it  almost  all  the  after- 
noon, while  we  gathered  the  apples.  Evelyn  and  I  always 
go  together,  though  she  is  six  years  younger,  and  Eobina 
comes  in  betwixt  us.  But  Bobina,  all  say,  should  have  been 
a  boy.  She  is  now  just  fourteen,  and  as  tall  as  I  am,  and 
her  wrists  much  stronger.  She  loves  to  be  ever  out-of- 
doors  ;  in  the  farm-yard  among  the  poultry  and  the  pigs 
and  the  cows.  And  she  will  spend  hours  in  the  warren 
with  the  conies,  who  do  not  fear  her  ;  and  the  deer  in  the 
park  will  let  her  stroke  them,  though,  if  any  one  else  draw 
near  they  rush  off  like  the  wind.  Eobina  is  much  more 
clever  than  I  am,  and  seems  older  altogether,  and  never 
cares  for  other  people  to  look  after  her,  but  will  ever  be 
independent.  She  wishes  much  she  had  been  a  boy,  chiefly 
because  she  would  not  then  have  been  forced  to  wear  long 
skirts,  which  certainly  do  get  in  one's  way  not  a  little.  The 
only  play  of  Shakespeare's  that  I  can  ever  make  her  hearken 
to  is  "  Cymbeline,"  and  she  cares  not  for  that  till  it  comes 
to  the  part  where  Imogen  dons  "  doublet,  hat,  hose,"  and 
says  she  is  "  almost  a  man  already."  All  which  Betty 
thinks  mighty  improper,  but  Evelyn  and  I  think  we  would 


80  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

have  done  harder  things  than  that  to  win  back  our  hug- 
baud's  trust,  and,  anyhow,  it  seemed  better  than  staying  at 
the  court  to  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  day  that  the  picture  fell,  when  we  had  finished  the 
apple-gathering  for  that  afternoon,  some  of  us  shaking  the 
branches  while  nurse  stood  below  to  catch  the  apples,  or 
else  all  holding  a  big  cloth  below,  while  Hurst  climbed  into 
the  trees,  and  dropped  them  softly  down  so  that  they  might 
not  be  bruised — when  all  was  done,  Evelyn  and  I  stayed, 
walking  up  and  down  the  apple-walk,  which  is  quite  our 
favorite  part  of  the  garden.  To  begin  with,  it  is  quiet,  and 
people  do  not  come  there  often,  for  it  lies  at  the  further 
side  of  the  vegetable-garden,  and  is  walled  off  from  the 
bowling-green.  At  the  end  is  the  pigeon-cote,  with  its  red- 
tiled  roof  and  weather-vane,  and  the  dear,  soft,  blue-gray 
pigeons  flying  and  whirring  about  overhead.  Then,  too,  the 
prettiest  part  of  the  moat  is  just  in  this  place.  It  takes  a 
great  sweeping  curve  just  beyond  the  pigeon-cote,  and  on 
the  further  bank  the  fir-trees  are  closer  and  taller  than  else- 
where, and  other  trees  mingle  with  them  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
wood  is  so  thick  just  there  that  we  always  call  it  the  wilder- 
ness. After  that  great  beautiful  curve  the  moat  is  straight 
for  a  long  way— the  whole  length  of  the  apple-walk,  which 
stretches  alongside  of  it,  a  broad,  grassy  walk,  with  one 
side  sloping  down  to  the  water  and  shaded  by  the  dear  old 
apple-trees.  Evelyn  and  I  always  fancy  that  the  monks 
must  have  walked  up  and  down  this  path.  For  in  old  times 
Mondisfield  was  a  monastery,  and  had  a  chapel  belonging 
to  it,  which  was  built  close  to  our  north  parlor.  And  the 
abbot  of  St.  Edmondsbury  used  to  be  fond  of  staying  here. 

It  was  while  walking  up  and  down  the  apple-walk  thai 
day  that  we  decided  to  write  down  what  happens.  I  am 
to  write  because  my  writing  is  easier  to  read,  but  Evelyn 
will  help  me  to  remember  things,  and  we  shall  do  it  on 
rainy  days.  We  do  it  for  the  sake  of  those  other  children 
who  one  day,  hundreds  of  years  hence  perhaps,  will  live 
in  our  dear  old  home. 

"We  are  a  big  household.  There  are  father  and  mother; 
Betty,  who  is  nearly  one-and-twenty,  and  has  a  dear,  kind 
face  and  clever  hands  which  can  make  all  things  from 
shirts  to  sack  posset;  Damaris,  who  is  tall  and  rosy,  and 
learns  Latin,  and  can  even  write  poetry,  yet  is  skillful  at 
embroidery  too;  Frances,  who  is  something  like  Betty, 
and  who,  I  think,  has  never  done  one  wrong  thing  all  her 
life,  yet  is  the  kindest  of  all  to  us  when  we  have  done 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  81 

wrong;  Joyce,  the  one  who  writes  this  record;  Robina, 
who  has  been  afore  described;  and  dear  Evelyn,  our  pet, 
the  youngest  of  all.  Then  there  is  nurse,  who  has  lived 
with  us  all  our  lives;  and  Kezia,  the  cook;  and  Tabitha, 
her  daughter,  my  mother's  maid;  and  Dennis,  the  serving- 
man;  and  Hurst,  the  gardener;  and  Melchizedec,  the 
coachman;  besides  the  farm  laborers,  who  live  in  the  cot- 
tages near  by.  Evelyn  says  I  have  not  described  myself, 
and  that  the  "  descendants"  of  the  Eandolph  Wharncliffes 
will  not  know  what  I  am  like.  But  of  course  there  is  the 
picture  of  me  in  the  north  parlor  which  will  perhaps  still 
hang  there,  that  picture  which  amuses  us  all  so  much.  It 
was  our  grandmother  who  had  it  painted  when  once  I 
stayed  with  her  at  St.  Edmondsbury,  nearly  six  years  ago. 
I  am  sitting  in  a  beautiful  landscape,  in  a  pale-green  satin 
dress  (a  dress  which  was  never  mine  at  all),  and  my  curls 
are  smoother  than  they  ever  could  have  been,  and  every- 
thing about  me  most  neat  and  proper,  with  never  a  crease 
or  a  crumple,  while  with  one  hand  I  caress  a  meeker  lamb 
than  ever  lived,  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  round  his  neck. 
Our  grandmother  had  the  picture  painted  for  her,  and 
when  she  died  it  was  brought  here.  Therefore  the  "  de- 
scendants" can  certainly  need  no  more  description.  There 
is  one  other  person  whom  I  would  have  liked  to  describe, 
and  that  is  mother.  I  have  tried,  but  it  is  of  no  use,  it 
had  all  to  be  scratched  out.  Somehow  I  almost  doubt  if 
even  Mr.  Milton  could  have  described  his  own  mother. 
There  are  some  things  will  not  go  into  words,  though  we 
try  ever  so  much  to  make  them. 

Writing  this,  in  the  window-seat  of  our  great  nursery, 
and  looking  first  out  of  doors  at  the  quiet  garden  and 
across  the  moat  to  the  broad  elm-tree  avenue,  and  again 
beyond  that  to  the  wooded  hill  in  the  distance,  with  all  the 
trees  so  golden  and  glorious,  I  can  scarcely  believe  that 
troubles  can  seek  us  out  in  this  dear,  quiet  home,  of  ours. 
Within  is  nurse,  looking  through  a  great  basket  full  of 
hose — warm  woolen  hose  for  winter  wear — and  Evelyn  on 
her  little  stool  sits  reading  Mr.  Bunyan's  story  of  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  eating  a 
Perry  pippin.  Mother  has  just  come  in  with  a  bunch  of 
fresh-gathered  lavender,  which  we  are  to  make  up  into 
bags  for  the  linen-chest,  therefore  I  shall  write  no  more  of 
our  recollections  at  present.  Robina  and  Damaris  come  in 
eating  apples — we  all  eat  apples  in  these  autumn  days. 
Eobina  owns  to  ten  this  afternoon !  Will  the  children  who 


82  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

will  live  here  in  the  future  live  the  life  we  live  ?  "Will  they 
wander  about  in  the  sunny  autumn  days,  gathering  golden 
pippins,  and  golden  premettes,  and  Perry  pippins  ?  Will 
they,  too,  pace  to  and  fro  under  the  dear  old  trees  in  the 
apple-walk  ?  And  will  they  love  Mondisfield  as  dearly  aa 
we  love  it  now  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MARY  DENHAM'S  COUNSEL. 

He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too 
Sees  more  than  any  other  doo. 

MATTHEW  KOYDON. 

HUGO  was  naturally  one  of  those  who,  by  virtue  of  a 
yielding  disposition  and  an  absorption  in  intellectual  pur- 
suits, are  somewhat  averse  to  politics.  Until  he  met  Alger- 
non Sidney  the  affairs  of  the  nation  had  troubled  him  not 
at  all,  he  had  thought  as  little  about  them  as  any  one  in 
England.  Bat  the  general  interest  in  political  events  was 
growing  so  keen  and  strong-  that  it  was  no  longer  possible 
for  him  to  remain  indifferent.  As  usual,  the  events  of  the 
times  were  represented  in  the  games  played  by  the  child- 
ren. In  the  days  of  the  disputes  between  Charles  I.  and 
the  Parliament,  the  children  had  played  at  "  Cross-pur- 
poses." At  the  Restoration  a  new  game  had  been  intro- 
duced— "  I  love  my  love  with  an  A,"  etc.  At  the  present 
time  another  game  had  superseded  this.  The  light  frivolity 
of  the  Restoration  days  had  become  overshadowed  by  the 
intolerance  which  made  Protestants  persecute  Romanists, 
Churchmen  persecute  Non-conformists,  and  Tories  do  all 
in  their  power  to  silence  Whigs.  Accordingly  the  children 
began  to  travesty  the  state  of  things  they  saw  in  the  world 
around,  and  introduced  the  game  of  "  Neighbor,  I've  come 
to  torment  you;  do  as  I  do."  This,  again,  was  in  its  turn 
to  be  replaced,  in  the  days  ol  the  Revolution,  when  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  were  changing  places,  by 
"  Puss  in  the  corner." 

As  even  in  their  sports  the  children  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  the  events  which  agitated  the  outer  world,  so  in  the 
quiet  of  his  life  of  study  Hugo  could  not  fail  to  be  aware 
of  the  great  national  struggle  which  was  going  on,  nor 
could  he  fail  to  take  interest  in  it.  Life  seemed  to  grow 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  83 

bigger  to  him,  and  he  became  growingly  conscious,  as 
Joyce  over  her  books  had  become  conscious,  that  he  knew 
very  little,  and  that  there  was  much  to  know.  It  is  a 
•wonderful  tame  for  all  of  us  when  we  first  begin  to  take 
keen  interest  in  matters  outside  our  own  small  circle  ; 
when,  having  been  duly  crammed  and  unduly  disgusted 
with  history  in  our  school  days,  we  wake  up  one  happy 
morning  to  find  that  there  is  a  living  history  which  can 
be  daily  and  hourly  studied — a  history  in  which  we  all 
have  our  share,  our  infinitesimal  yet  priceless  share,  of  in- 
fluence and  responsibility. 

The  autumn  had  been  to  him  a  very  happy  one.  He  was 
fascinated  by  Sidney,  whom  he  had  now  met  several  times. 
He  was  as  yet  only  in  that  pleasant  borderland  where,  with 
suspended  judgment  and  ready  observation,  it  is  our  part 
to  listen  and  learn  and  study  and  hold  our  tongues. 
Happy  nineteen !  when  it  is  a  duty,  a  positive  duty,  to 
keep  our  opinions  to  ourselves,  or,  when  questioned,  to 
put  them  forward  with  all  due  modesty  and  confession  of 
ignorance,  not  confidently  as  in  later  days,  when  the  time 
for  action  has  come  and  a  man  must  have  the  courage  of 
his  opinions,  and  be  ready,  if  need  be,  to  pain  his  dearest 
friends,  or  else  become  a  mere  cipher,  forfeiting  his  good- 
ly birthright. 

Westminster  Hall  had  in  those  days  a  row  of  book-stalls, 
and  at  one  or  another  of  these  Hugo  would  frequently 
pause  on  his  way  to  or  from  the  courts.  One  day  early  in 
December  he  had  parted  with  Denham,  who  by  no  means 
shared  his  bookish  tendencies,  and  in  his  student's  cap  and 
long  black  gown  was  standing  at  his  favorite  stall  scanning 
the  titles  of  the  books,  and  now  and  again  taking  up  some 
volume  which  had  for  him  a  special  attraction. 

The  book-seller,  a  little  shriveled  man  with  a  great  gift 
of  persuasiveness,  was  crying  up  his  own  wares  with  an 
entire  lack  of  false  modesty  and  a  great  many  adjectives. 

"  The  finest  work,  sir,  of  the  year,  I  assure  you,  a  mighty 
fine  poem,  second  in  number,  but  not  second  in  quality,  to 
its  immortal,  far-renowned,  majestical  predecessor.  The 
greater  part  Mr.  Dryden's  own  work,  sir,  I  assure  you." 

.  Hugo  took  up  the  second  part  of  "  Absalom  and  Achito- 
phel,"  and  glanced  through  it.  As  he  did  so  he  was  startled 
by  a  sudden  greeting  from  Randolph. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  Dryden's  last  ?  Oh,  Tate  and 
Dryden  mixed,  is  it  not  ?  Sounds  less  familiar  than  Tate 
and  Brady." 


84  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Have  you  read  the  poem  ?"  asked  Hugo. 

"No,  but  all  the  world  talks  of  it,  when  they  are  not 
talking  of  Captain  Clifford  and  Mrs.  Synderfin,  or  of  Lord 
Gray  and  his  Lady  Henrietta.  We  had  best  buy  it,  for  I 
hear  there  is  an  allusion  to  a  friend  of  ours,  or  at  least  an 
acquaintance." 

He  paid  for  the  book,  and  putting  his  arm  within  Hugo's 
walked  down  Westminster  Hall,  and,  crossing  Palace  Yard, 
led  the  way  toward  the  landing  stairs.  It  was  not  the 
least  happiness  of  this  memorable  autumn  that  Randolph 
had  grown  so  much  less  severe,  and  treated  him  so  much 
more  as  a  friend  and  an  equal.  Hugo,  being  what  he  was, 
never  dreamed  of  taking  the  slightest  advantage  of  the 
change  ;  if  possible  he  treated  his  guardian  witli  greater 
deference  than  ever. 

They  took  a  boat  to  the  Temple  stairs,  and  as  they  glided 
along  the  crowded  river,  passing  hundreds  of  boats  and 
barges  all  gilded  with  the  ruddy  gold  light  of  the  setting 
sun,  Randolph  opened  the  new  book  and  searched  for  tho 
allusion  to  this  mysterious  acquaintance. 

"  Ha !  I  have  it  at  last !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Now  carry 
your  thoughts  back  to  Mondisfield  Hall  on  the  night  of  the 
6tk  of  October,  and  hearken  to  this  : 

"  '  Next  these,  a  troop  of  busy  spirits  press, 
Of  little  fortunes  and  of  conscience  less  ; 
With  them  the  tribe,  whose  luxury  had  drained 
Their  banks,  in  former  sequestrations  gained  : 
Who  rich  and  great  by  past  rebellions  grew, 
And  long  to  fish  the  troubled  streams  anew. 
Some  future  hope,  some  present  payment  draws, 
To  sell  their  conscience  and  espouse  the  cause ; 
Such  stipends  those  vile  hirelings  best  befit, 
Priests  without  grace,  and  poets  without  wit. 
Shall  that  false  Hebronite  escape  our  curse, 
Juclas,  that  keeps  the  rebel's  pension  purse  : 
Judas,  that  pays  the  treason-writer's  fee  : 
Judas,  that  well  deserves  his  namesake's  tree  : 

,     Who  at  Jerusalem's  own  gates  erects 
His  college  for  a  nursery  of  the  sects.' 

That  is  fine  and  pure  Dryden  unalloyed  by  Tate,  I  darfe 
swear.     How  now  !  do  you  grasp  its  meaning  ?" 

Hugo  had  done  his  best  to  forget  that  night  at  Mondis- 
field Hall,  and  was  by  no  means  grateful  to  Randolph  for 
reminding  him  of  it. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  85 

"  I  see  not  whom  lie  means  by  Judas,"  lie  replied,  look- 
ing far  away  to  the  west  where  the  river  flowed  calmly  on 
between  the  houses  and  the  green  gardens  to  the  peaceful 
country,  reflecting  on  its  calm  surface  the  image  of  the 
crimson  skies. 

"  Can  not  you  call  to  mind  the  man  who  was  spokesman 
on  that  occasion?  A  hideous,  lantern-jawed  fellow,  red 
and  ill-favored.  That  was  Ferguson,  a  devil  incarnate,  and 
the  one  whom  Mr.  Dryden  has  justly  painted  as  Judas.  A 
pestilent  treason-monger  who  bears  a  charmed  life.  He 
had  at  one  time  a  training-school  for  those  who  would 
enter  the  ministry." 

"  I  mind  his  face  well,"  said  Hugo.  "  He  was  the  ill- 
iooking  one  of  the  lot." 

"  Forget  him  not,  but  bear  his  face  ever  in  mind.  That 
knowledge  may  prove  useful  some  day,"  said  Randolph, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book. 

Hugo  made  no  reply,  only  a  vague  sense  of  discomfort 
crept  over  him.  He  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"  '  The  good  old  cause  revived,  a  plot  requires  ; 

Plots  true  or  false  are  necessary  things 

To  raise  up  commonwealths  and  ruin  kings,'  " 

said  Randolph,  half  aloud.    Then  again  after  an  interval, 

"  '  Achitophel  still  wants  a  chief,  and  none 
Was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalom. ' 

No,  this  latter  poem  is  not  so  fine  as  the  earlier.  'Twas  a 
wonderful  parallel  to  Shaftesbury  and  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth.  Old  Dryden  has  read  his  Bible  to  some  purpose. 
This  poem  fills  up  some  gaps  in  the  other,  but  'twill  never 
iiave  such  influence." 

By  this  time  the  boat  had  reached  the  landing-place,  and 
the  two  brothers  separated,  Randolph  to  go  to  his  favorite 
coffee-house,  Hugo  to  go  to  •  his  chambers  to  doff  his 
student's  cap  and  gown  for  the  cloak,  sword,  and  broad- 
brimmed  hat  which  he  wore  in  ordinary  life.  That  refer- 
ence to  Mondisfield  Hall  had  put  him  into  a  state  of 
internal  tumult  which,  with  all  his  philosophy  and  all  his 
easy  temper,  he  could  not  quell.  That  he  might  some  day 
be  called  upon  to  make  use  of  the  information  obtained  on 
that  October  night  was,  whenever  it  occurred  to  him,  a 
haunting  dread.  He  had  a  great  faculty  for  dismissing  all 


86  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

thoughts  of  disagreeable  matters,  but  every  now  and  then 
this  skeleton  in  his  cupboard  would  disturb  his  peace. 
On  this  December  afternoon  he  could  not  quiet  it.  To 
read  was  impossible  ;  the  silence  of  the  chambers  in  king's 
Bench  Walk  was  intolerable  to  him.  He  at  length  re- 
solved to  go  to  his  usual  haven  of  refuge,  the  Denhams' 
house  in  Norfolk  Street.  If  any  one  could  exorcise  the 
troublesome  fiend  it  would  be  Mary  Denham  ;  and  fate  was 
kind  to  him,  for  Sir  William  was  asleep  on  a  couch  at  the 
far  end  of  the  withdrawing-room,  and  Mary  sat  by  the 
hearth  with  her  needle-work,  ready  to  charm  away  his  mel- 
ancholy. 

"  Stir  the  fire  into  a  blaze,"  she  said.  "  The  light  is  grow- 
ing dim,  and  methinks  there  is  something  in  your  face  to 
be  read.  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Naught  has  happened — naught  of  any  note,  that  is,"  he 
replied,  taking  very  good  care  to  stir  the  fire  gently,  lest 
Sir  William  should  wake.  "  I  have  just  been  reading  the 
new  part  of  '  Absalom  and  Achitophel.' " 

"Has  that  made  you  so  melancholy?  For  my  part 
whether  agreeing  with  it  or  not,  I  could  not  help  enjoying 
it.  'Tfs  a  wondrous  satire." 

Hugo  made  no  reply  ;  he  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a 
reverie.  That  he  should  show  so  slight  an  interest  in  the 
new  poem  was  strange,  and  Mary,  who  knew  him  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world,  felt  certain  that  he  had  some- 
thing weighing  on  his  mind.  Was  he  thinking  of  that  blue- 
eyed  Suffolk  maiden,  she  wondered.  And,  with  a  little  sigh, 
acknowledged  to  herself  that  it  was  very  probable.  If  only 
he  would  have  taken  her  into  his  confidence,  she  could  have 
borne  it  so  much  better !  And,  after  all,  had  they  not  known 
each  other  far  too  long  to  let  foolish  ceremony  stand  between 
them  ?  There  was  a  chance,  too,  that  she  might  be  able  to 
help  him,  at  any  rate  to  cheer  him,  and  her  love  for  Hugo 
was  too  deep  to  admit  of  selfish  considerations  coming  in 
to  hinder  her.  She  had  suffered  much  during  the  last 
few  weeks,  but  this  made  her  only  the  more  anxious  that 
he  should  be  happy  in  his  love.  It  was  of  his  happiness 
that  she  thought — her  own  was  a  secondary  matter. 
Therefore  there  could  be  no  jealousy  in  her  love.  She 
loved  already  this  unknown  "Joyce,"  just  because  she 
knew  that  he  loved  her. 

"  Hugo,"  she  said,  after  some  minutes  had  passed  in  si- 
lence, "  you  did  not  come  hither  to  stare  into  the  fire,  you 
came  to  talk  to  me." 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  87 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?"  lie  exclaimed,  looking  up 
witH  a  startled  face. 

"  You  had  '  I  want  to  talk  with  some  one '  writ  in  plain 
characters  on  your  forehead,"  she  said,  smiling.  "And 
the  older  and  wiser  part  of  the  family  is  either  out  or 
asleep,  you  see.  Talk  to  me,  Hugo  ;  tell  me  what  troubles 
you." 

Her  manner  was  irresistible. 

"It  is  just  that  I  can  speak  of  it  to  no  one  that  troubles 
me,"  he  replied,  looking  up  to  her  clear,  sympathizing 
eyes.  "  It  is  merely  a  dread — a  dread  that  haunts  me  at 
times." 

"  And  it  has  haunted  you  since  the  fifth  day  of  last  Oc- 
tober ?"  she  said,  softly,  thinking  of  the  duel  and  of  fair 
Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

Hugo  turned  ashy  pale. 

"  How  can  you  possibly  know  ?"  he  cried.  "  Who  has 
told  you  ?" 

"  No  one  told  me,  yet,  nevertheless,  I  know,"  said  Mary, 
quietly.  "  You  love  Mistress  Joyce  Wharncliffe,  and  you 
fear  that  you  may  never  see  her  more." 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  more,  'tis  true  ;"  his  face  softened. 
"  I  love  her  ;  that  also  is  true." 

He  paused.  Mary's  hands  trembled  slightly  ;  she  was 
obliged  to  let  her  needle-work  fall,  and  clasp  her  hands  to- 
gether. That  was  the  only  sign  of  agitation  which  escaped 
her,  and  afterward  she  was  even  more  quiet  in  manner  than 
usual,  sitting  there  in  her  high-backed  chair  by  the  hearth, 
with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  calm  eyes  watch- 
ing Hugo's  face. 

"How  did  you  find  this  out,"  said  Hugo,  at  length. 
"  You  are  a  witch,  Mary,  to  read  a  man's  private  thoughts 
and  innermost  heart. " 

"  A  very  bad  compliment  for  my  sympathetic  penetra- 
tion," she  said,  smiling.  "  I  have  no  desire  to  try  the  duck- 
ing-stool !  But,  as  I  tell  you,  you  bear  things  writ  on  your 
forehead,  and  I  could  not  help  knowing — or  rather  feeling 
almost  sure." 

"Oh,  Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  you  could  but  see  her! 
She  is  so  fresh  and  fair  and  lovely.  Winsome  as  a  child, 
and  yet  with  the  heart  of  a  woman  all  the  time." 

"  And  she  is  beautiful  ?"  questioned  Mary. 

"  So  beautiful  that  one  would  dread  to  think  of  her  ever 
leaving  that  quiet  country  Lome,  where  she  lives  so 
sheltered  a  life,  Aud  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautifu!3 


88  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

yet  there  is  about  her  nothing  stiff,  or  narrow,  or 
puritanic,  except  it  be  the  purity  of  her  heart  and  life, 
which  might  be  deemed  puritanic  at  court." 

"  You  would  be  the  last  to  wish  to  take  her  there,"  said 
Mary.  "  But,  Hugo,  I  see  no  cause  for  dread  in  all  this. 
Just  for  the  present  you  may  not  be  able  to  see  her  again, 
but  what  then  ?  You  are  both  young — all  is  life  beforejou. 
And  love  can  surely  overcome  a  few  obstacles,  else  it  were 
not  worthy  the  name." 

"  That  is  not  the  dread  which  haunts  me,  that  is  some- 
thing widely  different.  Mary,  promise  not  to  question  me, 
promise  to  reveal  to  no  living  soul  any  thoughts  which  may 
connect  themselves  with  what  I  shall  say.  Of  this  dread 
I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak  in  plain  words.  But  thus  far 
help  me.  Suppose  to  yourself  such  a  case  as  the  following: 
A  father  becomes  acquainted  with  certain  facts  which  may 
be  of  great  use  to  the  Government ;  he  makes  his  son  ob- 
serve the  said  facts,  that  he  may  be  able  to  bring  him  for- 
ward as  a  second  witness.  The  son,  owing  obedience  to 
the  Government,  and  having  sworn  in  all  things  to  obey 
his  father,  has  grave  doubts  as  to  the  way  in  which  the 
information  has  been  obtained — thinks  it  was  treacher- 
ously obtained.  Moreover,  he,  beginning  to  think 
for  himself,  sees  that  '  oppression  '  is  the  watchword 
of  his  father's  party,  and  'liberty5  the  watchword 
of  the  oppressed.  This,  at  any  rate,  he  thinks  he  sees, 
but  being  as  yet  young,  ignorant,  lacking  experience,  he 
is  scarce  fit  for  any  sort  of  action.  When  the  time  comes, 
and  he  is  called  upon  to  bear  witness  to  what  he  .has  seen 
what  course  is  he  to  pursue  ?" 

Mary  was  silent.  She  was  too  wise  a  counsellor  ever  to 
be  in  a  hurry,  and  this  was  a  curious  and  complicated  case 
which  Hugo  had  put  before  her. 

"  'Tis  very  hard  to  see  what  would  be  right,"  she  said,  at 
length.  "  I  cannot  yet  feel  sure,  but  in  such  extremity  it 
would  doubtless  be  borne  in  upon  a  man  what  he  ought 
to  do.  His  conscience  would  show  him  what  was  right." 

"  Conscience,"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently,  longing  for 
some  infallible  authority  outside  himself.  "  Conscience ! 
I  want  something  more  definite,  more  unmistakable  than 
that." 

."  Surely,"  she  said,  "that  is  definite,  if  we  train  our- 
selves to  listen  to  it,  and  ever  in  all  things  obey  it." 

"  But  conscience  is  the  plea  of  the  conventiclers  ;  they 
profess  to  suffer  for  conscience  sake." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  89 

"And  doubtless  do,"  said  Mary.  "Do  you  not  think 
that  they  may  truly  and  honestly  be  following  their  con- 
science, and  playing  the  part  in  the  world's  history  which 
God  saw  to  be  right  and  necessary  ?  And  in  truth,  Hugo, 
I  thought  not  to  hear  you  of  all  people  speak  against  this. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  unless  Bupert  has  misled 
me,  there  was  once  a  time  when  you  braved  the  sneers  of 
the  on-lookers  and  took  your  stand  on  this  same  con- 
science-hearkening." 

Hugo  could  once  more  see  in  imagination  that  Suffolk 
roadside,  could  once  more  feel  that  terrible  struggle, 
which,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  had  rendered  it  forever 
impossible  for  him  to  return  to  his  old  peaceful  submis- 
sion and  self-effacement. 

"  But  then  I  saw  clearly  what  was  right.  That  was  a 
very  simple  case.  Now,  in  the  case  of  that  son  whom  I 
mentioned  to  you  matters  are  different,  there  is  no  plain 
right  and  plain  wrong." 

"But  there  will  be  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Mary, 
quietly. 

"  But  how  to  see  it — to  be  sure  of  it  ?"  he  faltered. 
"  Worst  of  all,  how  to  do  it !" 

"  Yes,  there  will  be  the  hard  part,"  said  Mary,  thought- 
fully. 

"  The  seeing  will  surely  be  clear  enough,  but  the  doing  ?" 
She  was  silent  for  a  minute.  When  she  spoke  again  her 
face  had  changed,  and  there  was  something  of  diffidence 
in  her  voice. 

"  It  has  made  me  think  of  one  day  long  ago  when  you 
and  Rupert  had  both  got  into  trouble  at  school,  the  time 
when  Dr.  Busby  set  you  to  learn  all  the  collects  and  all  the 
articles." 

"  And  flogged  us  till  we  said  them  without  a  fault,"  said 
Hugo,  laughing.  "I  remember  that  part  well  enough, 
but  the  collects  and  the  articles  I  have  clean  forgot- 
ten." 

"  And  I,  too,  the  greater  number,  though  I  learned  them 
with  you,"  said  Mary.  "  But  there  is  one  that  always  seemed 
to  me  so  precisely  what  one  wanted  that  I  never  could  for- 
get it,  and  from  that  day  forth  ever  used  it.  It  is  the  one 
about '  the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such  things  as  be 
rightful. "; 

"I,  too,  will  use  it,"  he  said,  quickly.  "Ah!  how  long 
ago  those  days  seem,  Mary.  Can  you  not  remember  how 
we  all  three  sat  up  in  the  attic  with  Sir  William's  big 


90  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

prayer-book  ?  I  can  see  the  room  now  and  the  window  that 
looked  out  on  the  river.  The  only  article  I  have  the  ghost 
of  a  recollection  of  is  'Original  Sin:'  'As  the  Pelagians  do 
vainly  talk' — I  can  say  that  one  sentence;  and,  as  we 
learned  it,  I  remember  the  king's  barge  went  past  and 
there  came  sounds  of  music  and  distant  babel  of  voices. 
I  ever  think  of  the  'Pelagians'  when  in  a  great  assembly 
one  hears  the  buzz  of  voices  and  can  distinguish  no 
words." 

Mary  smiled,  and  in  another  minute  their  tete-a-tete  was 
ended,  for  Colonel  Sidney  was  announced,  and  Hugo,  in 
the  happiness  of  meeting  his  hero,  had  no  more  thought 
for  the  skeleton  in  his  cupboard. 

"  I  have  had  tickets  presented  to  me  for  Dryden's  new 
play,"  said  Sidney.  "  I  came  to  know  whether  I  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  escorting  you  and  your  aunt,  mistress 
Mary." 

"We  should  greatly  enjoy  it,"  said  Mary,  "my  aunt 
was  talking  of  it  but  now  at  dinner." 

"  They  would  both  fain  see  the  new  play,"  said  Sir 
William,  who  had  been  roused  by  Sidney's  entrance.  "  As 
for  me,  I  have  no  time  to  spare  for  the  theatre,  and  they 
are  ever  glad  of  an  escort." 

"  I  seldom  affect  it  myself,"  said  Sidney,  "  but  they  tell 
me  that  this  play  is  so  fraught  with  political  design  that 
one  ought  to  see  it.  Mr.  Dryden  has  become  the  mere 
tool  of  the  court  of  late.  'Tis  pity  that  a  man  of  such 
parts  should  so  demean  himself." 

"  And  he  gains  but  little  by  it,"  said  Hugo.  "  I  heard 
him  say  but  yesternight,  at  Will's,  that  his  salary  as 
laureate  had  not  been  paid  for  years." 

"  Poor  devil !"  said  Sidney.  "  And  in  the  meantime  the 
Duchess  of  Portsmouth  enjoys  £12,000  a  year  of  the  na- 
tion's money !  Well,  you  will  allow  me  to  escort  you  then? 
I  will  be  with  you  presently.  And  you,"  turning  to  Hugo, 
"  you  will  accompany  us,  will  you  not  ?" 

After  such  an  invitation  from  his  hero,  it  was  not  to  be 
imagined  for  a  moment  that  thoughts  of  perplexing  cases 
of  conscience,  of  plots  and  revelations  should  trouble  Hugo. 
When  that  evening  he  entered  Drury  Lane  with  Sidney, 
Lady  Denharn,  and  Mary,  he  was  probably  the  happiest 
person  in  the  theater.  Life,  with  that  one  exception  of  the 
skeleton  now  securely  locked  away  seemed  to  him  particu- 
larly bright  and  hopeful.  Mary  had  spoken  cheering  words^tq 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  91 

him  about  Joyce,  and  had  proved  herself  a  delightfully 
sympathetic  listener,  Randolph  had  treated  him  as  an  equal 
and  a  friend,  Sidney  had  not  only  asked  him  to  the  play, 
but  had  insisted  that  he  should  go  back  afterward  and  sup 
•with  him. 

This  evening  of  the  4th  December,  1682,  was  a  memor- 
able evening  in  the  theatrical  world.  London  had  at  that 
time  two  theatres — Drury  Lane,  known  as  the  King's 
House,  and  the  Duke's  House  in  Dorset  Gardens.  This 
latter  house  was  rich  in  the  possession  of  Betterton,  the 
greatest  actor  of  the  day,  and  they  mounted  their  plays  far 
better  than  was  done  at  Drury  Lane. 

London  was  not  large  enough,  however,  to  support  two 
theaters  comfortably,  and  for  the  last  few  years  the  man- 
agement of  the  Duke's  had  done  all  in  their  power  to 
cripple  Killigrew,  the  manager  of  the  King's  House,  so 
that  he  might  be  forced  to  consent  to  a  union.  This  had 
just  been  effected,  and  this  evening  was  to  witness  the  first 
new  play  brought  out  by  the  united  companies.  The 
choice  was  doubtless  a  wise  one,  for  not  only  was  Dryden 
extremely  popular,  but  this  particular  play  of  the  "  Duke 
of  Guise  "  had  already  been  much  talked  of.  It  had  been 
in  the  hands  of  the  lord  chamberlain  for  some  months  ;  he 
had  hesitated  whether  to  license  it  or  not,  for  the  parallel 
between  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  the  Duke  of  Moumouth, 
and  their  representative  plots  against  their  kings,  was  dan- 
gerously close.  At  length,  however,  he  had  yielded,  and 
on  the  first  night  every  one  rushed  to  see  the  long- 
talked-of  piece.  The  house  was  crowded  in  every  part, 
and  in  the  pit  was  a  turbulent  assembly,  who,  if  not  pleased, 
would  assuredly  express  their  feelings  loudly.  Sidney 
studied  the  audience  with  his  keen,  thoughtful  eyes  ;  even 
now  Hugo  felt  sure  he  was  musing,  as  ever,  on  the  state  of 
the  country,  closely  watching  the  people  that  he  might  as 
far  as  possible  know  the  state  of  their  feelings,  and  rightly 
estimate  their  worth.  At  length  the  buzz  of  the  conver- 
sation was  hushed,  the  roar  of  the  "  Pelagians,"  as  Hugo 
would  have  put  it,  was  suddenly  stilled,  for  Smith,  one  of 
the  best  actors,  appeared  before  the  curtain  to  speak  the 
prologue. 

He  spoke  it  well,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  clever,  but 
from  the  bold  beginning,  "Our  play's  a  parallel,"  the 
whole  tiling  bristled  with  bitter  allusions  to  the  events  of 
the  day,  ending  with  a  piece  of  satire  which  could  not  fail 
to  enrage  the  Whigs. 


92  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"Make  London  independent  of  the  crown; 
A  realm  apart;  the  kingdom  of  the  town. 
Let  ignoramus  juries  find  no  traitors, 
And  ignoramus  poets  scribble  satires. 
And,  that  your  meaning  none  may  fail  to  scan, 
Do  witat  in  coffee-houses  you  began — 
Pull  down  the  master,  and  set  up  the  man." 

The  play  opened  with  a  scene  representing  a  meeting  of 
the  Council  of  Sixteen,  who  were  the  leaders  of  the  con- 
spiracy.  A  reference  to  sheriffs  and  charters  made  the 
"Whig  portion  of  the  audience  angry,  but  they  restrained 
themselves  until  Bussy,  one  of  the  conspirators,  utterfyd 
the  words, 

"  Our  city  bands  are  twenty  thousand  strong." 

Now,  Shaftesbury  had  been  wont  to  boast  of  his  "  twenty 
thousand  brisk  boys  in  the  city,"  whom  he  could  summon 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  a  storm  of  hisses  greeted  this 
allusion. 

The  following  scene  between  a  magician  who  had  es- 
poused the  cause  of  Guise,  and  the  Devil,  rather  amused 
the  audience,  but  signs  were  not  wanting  before  long  that 
the  play  would  stir  up  yet  greater  enmity  between  the  two 
parties. 

As  for  Sidney,  he  sat  in  his  place  gravely  watching  the 
development  of  the  story,  making  no  sign  whatever,  till, 
in  the  third  act,  the  scene  between  Grillon  and  the  sheriffs 
produced  a  riotous  expression  of  disapproval  from  a  great 
part  of  the  audience,  and  a  frown  upon  his  calm  brow. 

With  the  fourth  act  matters  only  grew  worse.  The 
scene  in  the  Louvre,  in  which  the  king  has  an  interview 
with  the  Duke  of  Guise,  could  not  fail  to  offend  all  who 
had  the  slightest  regard  for  Monmouth.  The  appearance 
of  an  evil  spirit  in  the  garb  of  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel, 
and  his  assurance  that  "  ten  thousand  devils  more  are  in 
this  habit,"  also  gave  great  offense  ;  while  the  touching 
scenes  between  Marmoutiere  and  Guise  were  so  evidently 
intended  to  refer  to  the  Duchess  of  Monmouth,  and  her 
endeavors  to  restrain  her  husband,  that  the  audience  hissed 
angrily.  At  length,  Guise  having  been  murdered  in  the 
palace,  the  king  pronounced  his  coldly  prudent  wish  that 
Fate  might  bring  every  traitor  to  ruin  who  dared  the 
"  vengeance  of  indulgent  kings,"  and  the  play  closed. 

Then  Mrs.  Cook,  a  favorite  actress,  stepped  before  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  93 

curtain,  and  spoke  the  epilogue,  which  by  its  coarse  bru- 
tality could  not  but  disgust  every  unprejudiced  person. 

"  Good  Lord !"  exclaimed  Sidney,  "  what  will  women 
come  to  ?  Me  thinks  jesting  about  hangmen  ill  becomes 
them." 

His  words  were  half  lost  in  the  deafening  tumult  which 

,  ensued.     Applause  from  one  half  of  the  house,  and  indig- 

1  nant  expressions  of  disgust  from  the  other.     A  desperate 

endeavor  on  the  part  of  the  court  party  to  prevent  the  play 

being  damned  on  its  first  night,  and  a  storm  of  groans  and 

hisses  from  the  Whigs. 

The  house  was  still  all  in  an  uproar  when  Sidney  sug- 
gested to  the  ladies  that  they  should  leave,  and  having 
escorted  them  to  their  coach,  he  put  his  arm  within  Hugo's, 
and  with  a  man .  bearing  a  link  in  front  of  them,  they 
walked  to  his  house,  never  once  speaking. 

Hugo  had  hitherto  met  Sidney  either  at  the  Denhams'  or 
at  one  of  the  coffee  houses  ;  he  had  never  before  been  to 
his  house,  and  coming  that  evening  from  the  Egyptian 
darkness  of  the  streets,  which  were  lighted  only  by  the 
links  which  foot-passengers  were  fain  to  carry,  he  was 
almost  too  much  dazzled  by  the  sudden  return  to  bright 
light  to  see.  Sidney  took  him  into  a  room  where  prepara- 
tions for  supper  were  being  made  by  a  French  man-servant. 

"  Mr.  Wharncliffe  will  sup  with  me,  Ducasse.  Lay  covers 
for  two,"  he  said  ;  then,  as  the  man  1(  ft  the  room,  "  That  is 
my  faithful  servant,  and  at  the  same  time  my  friend,  Joseph 
Ducasse.  I  should  have  fared  ill  without  him." 

"  We,  too,  know  what  a  faithful  serving-man  can  prove," 
said  Hugo.  "We  have  one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  as 
staunch  and  trusty  an  old  fellow  as  any  in  England.  'Twas 
he  that  taught  me  your  name  as  a  boy." 

"  What !  Was  he  in  my  troop  ?  "  questioned  Sidney,  his 
face  lighting  up  with  keen  interest. 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Hugo.  "  He  was  ever  in  Cromwell's 
regiment.  But  he  mentioned  seeing  you  at  Marston  Moor." 

"Perchance  he  is  my  brave  rescuer!  "  exclaimed  Sidney. 
"  Did  he  ever  tell  you  of  the  deed  of  gallantry  to  which  I 
owe  my  life  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  have  heard  naught  of  any  rescue,"  said  Hugo  ; 
"  but  he  used  to  tell  of  the  battle,  and  of  how  gallantly  you 
charged  that  evening  at  the  head  of  my  Lord  Manchester's 
regiment  of  horse,  and  how  when  men  were  being  mowed 
down  beside  you  like  grain  you  ever  kept  a  good  courage, 
and  persevered  long  after  you  were  sore  wounded. 


94  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Methinks,  then,  I  may  at  last  have  found  my  gallant 
rescuer."  said  Sidney.  "  Draw  your  chair  to  the  hearth;  I 
will  tell  you  a  story.  That  same  evening,  on  Marston 
Moor,  we  had  had  the  sharpest  work  I  had  ever  seen.  I 
was  then  but  little  older  than  you  are  now,  and  had  not 
had  overmuch  experience,  but  there  are  many  who  main- 
tain still  that  the  fighting  there  was  more  severe  than  at 
any  other  battle  during  the  whole  war.  It  was  evening 
when  it  began — seven  o'clock.  Well,  we  had  been  fight- 
ing for  what  seemed  an  eternity,  and,  but  for  Cromwell's 
timely  aid  should  have  been  routed.  I  was  in  command 
of  a  troop  of  horse  in  my  Lord  of  Manchester's  regiment, 
and  Goring  was  giving  us  an  ill  time  of  it,  when  Crom- 
well, having  utterly  routed  Prince  Rupert's  troopers,  came 
to  our  help.  By  that  time  I  had  fallen,  desperately 
wounded.  I  can  well  remember  coming  to  after  an  inter- 
val of  unconsciousness.  The  sunset  light  had  faded  out 
of  the  sky;  but  the  moon  had  risen,  and  there  was  light 
enough  to  show  me  that  I  was  within  the  enemy's  power. 
At  that  minute,  however,  there  stepped  forward  from  the 
ranks  one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  rushed  onward  to 
where  I  lay,  seized  me  in  his  arms,  and  bore  me  off  into 
safety.  Seeing  his  great  love  and  courage  I  naturally  de- 
sired to  know  his  name,  that  I  might  in  some  way  reward 
him.  What  do  you  think  the  noble  fellow  replied  ?  '  Sir/ 
he  said,  '  I  did  it  not  for  that,  but  merely  for  the  love  of 
you.  And  therefore,  as  to  my  name,  I  desire  to  be  ex- 
cused.' " 

"  And  you  never  learned  who  he  was  ?" 

"  Never-  To  this  day  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea.  No 
one  noticed  him;  how  could  they,  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
fight  ?  Among  five  thousand  slain,  the  rescue  of  one  in- 
significant unit  is  little  likely  to  draw  notice.  It  will  re- 
main forever  unknown  save  to  him  that  did  it." 

"  It  would  have  been  just  like  Jeremiah,"  said  Hugo, 
musing.  "  But  of  course  I  could  never  ask  him." 

"No,  no,"  said  Sidney;  "let  it  remain  as  the  brave  fel- 
low would  have  it.  He  shall  be  forever  unknown,  yet 
never  forgotten.  Come,  let -us  sup;  if  that  accursed  play 
has  not  spoiled  your  appetite." 

"  I  fear  I  am  too  much  of  a  damned  neuter  for  that," 
said  Hugo,  smiling  and  quoting  the  words  of  the  epilogue, 

"  'Neither  fish,  nor  flesh,  nor  good  red-herring,' 

as  Mrs.  Cook  would  say." 

Sidney  made  no  reply  for  a  minute.     The  speech  was 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  BATS.  95 

one  which  he  could  little  understand,  and  he  "was  not, 
as  a  rule,  patient  with  aught  that  did  not  coincide 
with  his  own  views,  while  opposition  of  any  sort  in- 
variably called  forth  that  overbearing  temper  which 
was  well-known  to  all  his  acquaintances.  But  there  was 
something  about  Hugo  which  made  it  impossible  to 
take  exception  to  his  words,  however  little  in  accord 
with  the  hearer's  opinions.  He  was  so  frank,  so  out- 
spoken, and  yet  so  humble,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  treat  him  like  the  rest  cf  the  world.  Moreover,  al- 
though people  in  general  were  quite  ready  to  credit  Sid- 
ney with  resolute  courage,  and  the  "  huge  deal  of  wit " 
which  his  mother  had  discovered  in  him  while  but  a  lad  of 
fourteen,  they  Lad  not  the  insight  to  perceive  the  "  sweet- 
ness of  nature  "  which  Lady  Leicester  had  chronicled  as 
perceived  by  all  his  early  French  acquaintances. 

Perhaps  lie  had  now  to  a  certain  extent  been  soured  by 
the  difficulties  and  disappointments  of  a  singularly  wearing 
life.  Bat  there  were  some  few  who  were  able  to  perceive 
and  to  touch  into  life  that  tenderness,  that  lovingness, 
which  was  hidden  under  the  stern  exterior  ;  and  of  these 
was  Hugo.  Therefore  the  two  were  always  happy  in  each 
other's  society.  Each  awakened  in  his  companion  that 
quality  which  was  most  apt  to  lie  dormant — in  {Sidney,  ten- 
derness; in  Hugo,  strength. 

"  You  will  not  ever  be  a  c  damned  neuter/  "  said  Sidney, 
after  the  silence  in  which  he  had  been  thoughtfully  watch- 
ing Hugo's  face.  "The  world  can  not  spare  you,  Hugo  ; 
jsorne  day  you  will  prove  worker  as  well  as  watcher." 

"  And  yet,  though  I  know  you  abhor  them,  I  can  not  but 
see  some  merit  in  these  much-abused  trimmers,"  said  Hugo. 
"  Surely  the  truth  doth  oftentimes  lie  betwixt  extremes  ? 
Surely  there  is  much  to  be  said  on  either  side  ?  And  then 
definitely  committing  yourself  to  a  party,  you  commit 
yourself,  may  be,  to  much  that  you  do  not  altogether  ap- 
prove." 

"  Life  is  a  long  series  of  minor  disappointments,"  said 
Sidney.  "  Every  failure  to  meet  with  your  own  ideal, 
both  in  private  affairs  and  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation, 
is  a  disappointment.  But  what  then?  such  things  are 
inevitable  ;  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  them. 
You  have  thought,  have  studied  the  case,  have  arrived 
at  your  idea  of  government ;  we  will  say  that  it  is 
a  republic.  Good;  then  unite  yourself  with  that  party 
which  works  hard  to  secure  the  rights  of  the  people 
from  wrongful  invasion.  "What  though,  perchance,  they 


96  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

go  not  so  far  as  you  would  have  them  in  some  matters  and 
further  in  others  ?  You  have  to  look  at  the  matter  in  gross, 
not  in  detail,  you  must  weigh  the  advantages  with  the  disad- 
vantages. Otherwise  there  could  be  no  national  progress  ; 
the  spirits  that  can  see  a  little  further  than  their  fellows 
would  all  stand  aloof — so  many  helpless  units  of  no  ser- 
vice to  their  country.  Union  is  strength,  and  to  obtain 
union  those  who  love  the  people  and  would  fain  serve  their 
country  must  be  willing,  as  far  as  may  honorably  be,  to  sink 
their  differences.  Should  your  party  be  faithless  to  the 
cause  of  freedom,  then  leave  it  and  go  back  to  your  plow, 
like  Cincinnatus.  That  is  what  I  myself  was  forced  to  do. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  look- 
ing up  quickly.  "  There  is  ever  much  talk  of  the  Duke  of 
Momnouth's  intentions  ;  what  think  you,  would  that  be  for 
the  good  of  the  country  ?  " 

"If  you  mean  would  I  advise  any  man  to  volunteer  to-day 
for  Monmouth's  cause,  I  would  reply  no,  without  hesita- 
tion, the  people  love  him,  but  the  times  are  not  yet  ripe. 
It  behooves  all  men,  however,  to  watch  the  signs  of  the 
times  and  to  be  ready  for  instant  action  when  the  tyranny 
hath  grown  insupportable.  As  for  me,  it  is  all  one  to  me 
whether  James,  Duke  of  York,  or  James,  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth,  be  king,  so  long  as  the  people  regain  their  rights. 
Monmouth's  chiefest  recommendation  to  me  is  this  ;  his 
title  will  not  be  altogether  good,  therefore  he  will  be  sure 
to  rule  well  and  for  the  benefit  of  his  people  ;  'twill  be  to 
his  own  interest." 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  him  ?" 

"  I  have  but  met  him  twice,"  said  Sidney.  "  The  first 
time  my  Lord  Howard  cozened  us  both,  told  me  the  duke 
would  fain  be  introduced  to  me,  and  told  the  duke  that  I 
had  begged  him  to  make  us  acquainted." 

"  Not  overscrupulous,"  said  Hugo,  smiling. 
^  "No  ;  yet  he  did  it  doubtless  with  a  good  intent.     I  be- 
lieve Howard  to  be  a  true  patriot,  and  this  he  thought  was 
doubtless  warrantable  for  the  good  of  the  country." 

"And  think  you  the  duke's  cause  is  indeed  strong?" 

"Strong,  yet  not  strong  enough,"  said  Sidney.  "All 
that  wise  men  can  do  is  to  watch  and  be  ready,  to  know 
each  other,  and  to  know  who  may  be  trusted.  I  am  trust- 
ing you  not  a  Jittle  by  speaking  thus  boldly,  for  in  these 
days  I  might  be  sent  to  the  Tower  for  using  such  freedom 
of  speech.  Yet  methinks  I  would  right  willingly  trust  you 
with  my  life." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  97 

The  blood  rushed  to  Hugo's  cheeks,  his  quiet,  gray  eyes 
shone  with  a  strange  light. 

"  I'  faith,  sir,  I  would  gladly  die  for  you,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  could  that  prove  my  love?" 

There  was  such  perfect  sincerity  in  his  manner  that  even 
a  very  hard-hearted  person  could  not  fail  to  have  been 
touched.  As  for  Sidney,  his  eyes  grew  soft  and  humid, 
and  his  stern  face  relaxed  into  a  smile  which  Hugo  remem- 
bered to  his  dying  day. 

"  I  believe  you,  my  son,"  he  said,  grasping  his  hand. 
"  And  I  trust  you  with  all  my  heart." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   MASK   AT    GRAY*S   INN. 

Thus  Fortune's  pleasant  fruits  by  friends  increased  be  ; 
The  bitter,  sharp  and  sour  by  friends  allay 'd  to  thee  ; 
That  when  thou  dost  rejoice,  then  doubled  is  thy  joy  ; 
And  eke  in  cause  of  care  the  less  is  thy  annoy. 

Anon,  1557. 

RANDOLPH  watched  with  some  curiosity  the  process  of 
Hugo's  development.  That  winter  he  left  him  very  much 
to  himself,  exacting  implicit  obedience  as  ever,  but  taking 
good  care  to  i  ssue  but  few  commands.  He  also  increased 
his  influence  over  him  by  showing  much  more  interest  in 
his  concerns,  r.nd  oven  at  times  treating  him  with  an  affec- 
tion which  bound  his  brother  to  him  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done. 

Hugo  had  never  in  his  life  been  so  happy,  and  insensibly 
he  began  to  rely  less  on  his  books  for  interest  and  for  com- 
panionship. The  world  of  realities,  the  world  political, 
the  world  of  living  men  and  women,  began  to  interest  him 
as  it  had  never  done  before,  and  under  Sidney's  guidance 
his  character  rapidly  strengthened  and  matured — rapidly, 
yet  to  himself,  of  course,  insensibly. 

He  found  the  days  of  that  winter  almost  too  short  for  all 
the  interests  that  had  to  be  crowded  into  them.  He  was 
introduced  to  the  Green  Ribbon  Club,  at  Chancery  Lane 
end,  where  the  "  advanced  "  men  of  the  time  used  to  meet, 
much  scoffed  at  by  the  Tories.  He  was  constantly  with 
Sidney,  who,  now  that  his  friend  Penn  had  gone  to 
America  to  carry  out  the  system  of  government  which  he 
and  Sidney  had  devised  between  them,  was  glad  enough  of 


98  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


some  fresh  interest.  He  was  still  as  faithful  as  ever  to  the 
Denhams.  His  spare  time  would  often  be  spent  in  Sir 
William's  private  laboratory  or  in  long  excursions  into  the 
surrounding  country  in  search  of  spoils,  animal  or  vege- 
table, for  the  use  of  one  or  another  of  his  scientific  friends. 
He  was  asked  more  than  once  by  the  little  Duchess  of 
Grafton  to  meet  interesting  celebrities  -at  tier  father's 
house,  and  Eandolph  insisted  upon  a  certain  amount  of 
attendance  at  the  court.  Thus,  with  his  necessary  routine 
of  study,  his  time  was  fully  occupied,  and  contact  with  the 
world  and  the  necessity  of  managing  for  himself  began  to 
turn  him  into  something  more  Hike  the  man  of  action  after 
Jeremiah's  own  heart.  Apparently  he  was  going  to  sur- 
prise the  old  soldier  after  all,  and  prove  himself 
to  be  better  than  a  mere  visionary.  So  far  all  was -well. 
He  had  never  been  a  great  talker,  and  he  had  re- 
vealed to  his  brother  nothing  whatever  of  the  conversation 
which  passed  between  him  and  Sidney.  Eandolph  knew 
better  than  to  ask  him,  and  was  quite  capable  of  playing  a 
waiting  game.  So  all  went  happily,  and  had  any  one  told 
Hugo  that  a  snare  was  laid  for  him,  and  that  underneath 
all  this  fair  semblance  was  a  hideous  reality,  he  would  not 
have  believed  them.  The  sincere  are  always  slow  to  sus- 
pect insincerity  in  others.  Almost  invariably  they  have  to 
buy  their  experience,  and  to  pay  a  high  price  for  it. 

For  Mary  Denham  the  time  went  but  heavily;  being 
proud,  with  that  sort  of  maidenly  pride  which  was  per- 
haps more  often  to  be  found  in  past  times,  she  barely  con- 
fessed her  trouble  to  her  own  heart  even.  That  it  was 
there  she  knew  full  well,  but  she  rarely,  if  ever,  formed  it 
into  words  in  her  own  mind.  Instead  she  devised  a  new 
set  of  embroidered  covers  for  the  chairs  in  the  withdraw- 
ing-room,  and,  finding  that  insufficient,  she  took  Sidney's 
advice  and  threw  herself  into  her  uncle's  pursuits  with  an 
ardor  which  gained  for  her  the  nickname  of  the  "  Blue- 
stocking "  from  Rupert.  Perhaps  inevitably  her  manner 
toward  Hugo  changed  a  little.  The  change  was  extremely 
slight,  and  yet  to  one  of  his  acute  perceptions  it  could  not 
remain  unnoticed.  It  troubled  him  a  little  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  and,  in  all  the  excitement  of  his 
first  entrance  into  London  life  ;  but,  man-like,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  connect  the  change  with  that  talk  they 
had  had  about  Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

It  was  not  until  Christmas-day  that  he  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  her  alotie.  Christmas  was  not  an  altogether 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  99 

enjoyable  time  to  him,  but  he  had  a  certain  affection  for 
the  day,  and  this  year  was  his  first  opportunity  of  sharing 
it  all  through  with  Randolph,  for  on  the  previous  Christ- 
mas he  had  not  been  admitted  as  a  student  at  the  Temple, 
and  could  not  share  all  the  festivities  in  Hall. 

Service  in  the  Temple  Church  over,  the. gentlemen  and 
students  repaired  to  the  Inner  Temple  Hall,  where  break- 
last  was  prepared — a  breakfast  which  from  time  immemo- 
rial had  consisted  of  brawn,  mustard,  and  malmsey.  But 
the  event  of  the  day  was  the  dinner,  to  which,  as  usual, 
they  went  in  their  cloaks  and  hats,  but  carefully  laying 
aside  their  swords,  which  had  never  been  allowed  in  Hall 
since  a  day  long  ago  when  a  certain  Sir  John  Davis,  after- 
ward Lord  Chief-Justice  of  King's  Bench,  had  once  basti- 
nadoed a  man  at  dinner.  Fromf  that  time  forward  no 
weapon  had  been  allowed  to  put  in  an  appearance,  save  a 
knife  or  dagger,  which  was  at  times  indispensable  in  cut- 
ting up  the  meat.  Hugo  had  never  before  dined  at  the 
Christmas  dinner;  and  with  Randolph  at  a  little  distance 
among  the  gentlemen  of  his  standing,  and  Denham  beside 
him,  ever  ready  with  jests  and  laughter,  the  time  passed 
merrily  enough.  The  whole  assembly  uncovered  while 
grace  was  sung,  and  had  barely  resumed  their  hats  and 
places  when  the  doors  were  thrown  wide,  and  there  entered 
a  procession  of  serving-men  and  singers  with  the  boar's 
head.  Then  the  vaulted  roof  rang  with  the  strains  of  the 
merry  old  carol,  every  one  joining  lustily  in  the  chorus. 
The  words  had  been  sung  for  many  generations,  and  ran  as 
follows: 

"  The  bore's  heade  in  hande  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary  : 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merely, 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 
CHOEUS — Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

"  The  bore's  heade,  I  understande, 
Is  the  chief  servyce  in  this  lande ; 
Loke  wherever  it  be  fande  ; 

Servite  cum  cantico. 
CHOEUS — Caput,  etc. 

"  Be  gladde,  Lordes,  both  more  and  lasse, 
For  this  hath  ordayned  our  stewarde, 
To  chere  you  all  this  Christmasse, 

The  bore's  heade  with  mustarde. 
CHOKUS— Caput,  etc." 


100  [IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

The  quaint  old  customs,  the  great  bunches  of  evergreens 
with  which  the  hall  was  decorated,  the  genial  good-fellow- 
ship, all  were  enjoyable  to  Hugo;  but  by  and  by,  when  he 
had  been  asked  again  and  again  to  sing,  and  had  done  his 
duty  by  the  assembly;  when  many  had  sung  themselves 
hoarse,  and  many  more  had  made  themselves  drunk,  and 
those  who  were  still  sober  enough  had  betaken  themselves 
to  dicing,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  butler,  whose  box 
received  a  certain  percentage  of  the  winnings,  and  who 
often  made  in  a  single  night  as  much  as  fifty  pounds — 
then  he  began  to  weary  of  his  noisy  surroundings.  Never 
till  now  had  he  passed  a  Christmas  without  going  to  the 
house  in  Norfolk  Street.  He  would  leave  these  revelers, 
and  see  how  matters  fared  with  his  friends;  he  would  try 
to  discover  the  reason  of  that  strange  and  unaccountable 
change  in  Mary. 

All  seemed  as  usual  at  the  Denhams.  Mary  wore  a 
festival  dress  of  amber  satin,  and  she  talked  gayly  enough 
to  the  aunts  and  cousins  who  always  spent  Christmas-day 
with  them.  Yet,  whenever  she  turned  to  him,  he  was  quite 
conscious  that  she  was  making  an  effort  to  talk;  the  ease, 
the  perfect  certainty  of  friendship  was  gone.  It  saddened 
him.  What  had  he  said  ?  What  had  he  done  to  bring 
about  this  change?  Was  the  alteration  in  him  or  in  Mary? 
Was  the  fault  his  or  hers  ?  He  would  fain  have  persuaded 
himself  that  the  change  existed  only  in  his  fancy;  but  his 
keen  perceptions  were  not  to  be  thus  hoodwinked.  An 
indefinable  "something"  had  arisen  between  them;  and 
in  friendship  the  "indefinable"  is  far  more  dangerous 
than  the  actual  and  palpable  barriers.  Barriers  may  be 
surmounted;  but  who  is  to  surmount  that  which,  though 
real  and  unmistakable,  is  yet  incomprehensible?  His 
friend  was  slipping  away  from  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

Christmas  evening  was  not  a  favorable  opportunity  for 
any  sort  of  explanation.  He  watched  in  vain  for  a  chance 
of  even  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  Mary.  There  was  snap- 
dragon for  the  benefit  of  the  little  cousins,  and  then  Sir 
William  said  they  could  not  spend  the  Christmas  without 
one  game  of  Hoodman  Blind,  and  thus,  amid  much  laugh- 
ter and  mirth,  the  hours  slipped  by,  and,  save  Hugo  and 
Mary,  every  one  enjoyed  the  merry-making. 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  weeks.  Never 
could  Hugo  find  Mary  alone,  and  never  could  he  get  over 
that  curious  feeling  of  division  between  them,  which  made 
meeting  far  more  of  a  pain  than  a  pleasure. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  lOl 

At  length  came  an  opportunity,  which  in  a  sort  of  de- 
spair he  determined  to  seize.  It  was  the  2d  of  February, 
and  there  was  to  be  a  mask  ball  at  Gray's  Inn.  The  Den- 
ham's  were  personal  friends  of  Sir  Eichard  Gipps,  the 
Master  of  the  Bevels,  and  Hugo  knew  that  Mary  was  sure 
to  be  there;  he  also  had  received  an  invitation,  and  surely 
the  "  vain  talk  of  the  Pelagians  "  would  afford  him  shelter 
sufficient  for  a  private  conversation. 

The  hall  at  Gray's  Inn,  though  not  so  large  as  the  Middle 
Temple  Hall,  was  nevertheless  a  capital  ball-room,  and  its 
carved  oak  roof  showed  to  advantage  in  the  soft  light  of 
the  myriad  candles  ranged  in  sconces  round  the  walls. 
Hugo  arrived  rather  late,  only  just  before  the  royal  party 
indeed,  and  the  scene  was  picturesque  enough  to  divert 
him  from  his  anxiety  for  the  time.  The  blaze  of  lights,  the 
flashing  of  the  ladies'  diamonds,  the  wonderful  richness 
and  variety  of  color,  and  the  curious  effect  of  the  masks 
worn  by  every  one  present  pleased  him  greatly.  Almost 
before  he  had  taken  in  the  scene  the  people  rose  at  the 
announcement  that  the  king  was  approaching,  and  im- 
mediately afterward  Charles  entered  with  the  queen — who 
was  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  though  she  danced  but 
ill — the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  York,  and  the  rest  of  the 
court.  All  wore  masks,  but  many  of  them  were  easily 
recognizable  to  Hugo. 

It  was  not  until  the  dancing  was  about  to  begin  that  he 
remembered  Mary.  His  friend  was  here  somewhere  in  this 
gay  crowd,  and  he  must  find  her,  spite  of  her  disguise. 
Perhaps  explanations  might  be  easier  when  the  face  of  each 
would  be  protected^  and  no  expression  visible  save  in  the 
eyes. 

But  how  to  find  her  ?  The  king  had  already  led  out  a 
lady  for  a  single  coranto,  and  by  rights  Hugo  should  have 
been  respectfully  watching  his  sovereign.  He  cast  no 
single  glance,  however,  at  the  dancers,  but  sought  every- 
where with  eager,  restless  eyes  for  the  dark-brown  curls 
and  the  slim  figure,  a  little  below  the  medium  height,  for 
which  alone  in  all  this  multitude  he  cared. 

"  You  are  searching  for  some  one  ?"  said  a  voice  at  his 
elbow,  a  sweet  voice,  in  which  there  lurked  innocent  girl- 
ish laughter.  Two  bright  eyes  looked  out  from  behind 
the  mask,  smiling  at  him,  and  he  instantly  recognized  the 
little  Duchess  of  Grafton. 

He  had  not  expected  to  meet  her,  and  was  pleased,  for 
she  was  one  of  the  few  pure-minded  women  whom  he  knew, 


102  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DATS. 

and  her  youth  and  her  romantic  story,  together  with  a 
certain  sweet  discretion,  very  rare  in  one  of  her  age,  made 
her  strangely  fascinating. 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  dancing  with  your  Grace?" 
he  said. 

"  You  have  recognized  me,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  And 
yet  methinks  I  was  right  well  disguised.  Ay,  I  will  dance 
with  you,  and  you  can  pursue  your  search  meanwhile." 

"  I  was  looking  for  Mistress  Mary  Denham,"  said  Hugo. 
"  But  it  is  not  easy  amid  a  host  of  maskers  to  discover 
even  a  friend  of  long  standing." 

"  Yet  'tis  not  long  since  I  heard  you  sing  a  ditty  in  which 
over  far  greater  difficulties  you  maintained  '  Love  would 
find  out  a  way,' "  said  the  little  duchess. 

She  had  already  built  up  a  romance  for  these  two  friends 
of  hers,  and,  seeing  that  her  own  romance  had  been  all 
acted  out  in  the  days  of  her  childhood,  and  her  fate  fixed 
before  she  had  reached  her  teens,  her  innocent  match- 
making was  excusable  enough.  Hugo  thought  of  Joyce — 
he  always  thought  of  her  when  singing  that  song — then, 
recollecting  the  connection  of  the  duchess's  words,  he  col- 
ored crimson,  and  was  thankful  that  he  wore  a  mask. 

"  Mistress  Denham  has  been  my  friend  ever  since  our 
childhood,"  he  said,  quickly.  "But  friendship,  however 
keen,  however  true,  gives  not  that  power  of  which  the  song 
speaks." 

The  little  duchess  was  disappointed  ;  she  perceived  from 
his  manner  that  he  was  assuredly  in  love — but  not  with 
Mary. 

"  You  men  have  not  so  nice  an  observation  as  we  of  the 
weaker  sex,"  she  said.  "  Now  I  perceived  Mistress  Mary 
at  once." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Hugo,  quickly,  "is  she  near?" 
"You  are  wanting,  as  I  said,  in  nice  observation,"  said 
the  little  duchess,  who  could  tease  upon  occasion.  "I  re- 
cognized her  at  once  by  her  little  feet;  she  hath  the  small- 
est and  loveliest  in  the  room.  Now,  if  you  were  to  watch, 
to  exercise  your  powers  of  observation." 

She  looked  at  him,  laughingly,  as  he  rapidly  scanned  the 
feet  of  the  dancers. 

"  She  wears  a  dress  of  white  satin,  and  pearls  round 
her  neck,"  continued  the  little  duchess,  "  and  her  cavalier 
is—" 

She  broke  off,  for  Hugo,  with  a  start  of  surprise,  at  length 
recognized  Mary  Denham  in  the  lady  who  was  at  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  103 

moment  dancing  the  coranto  with  a  gentlemen  magnificent- 
ly arrayed  in  blue  satin  slashed  with  yellow,  whom  he  had 
discovered  to  be  his  old  school-fellow,  Matthew  Prior,  now 
an  undergraduate  at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 

His  mind  was  somewhat  preoccupied  when  his  turn  came, 
and  he  had  to  lead  out  the  Duchess  of  Grafton,  but,  as 
usual,  he  danced  extremely  well  ;  better — at  least  one  per- 
son thought  so — than  any  one  else  in  the  hall.  Mary  was 
sitting  now  beside  her  aunt ;  she  watched  every  part  of  the 
complicated  dance  with  an  absorbed  interest,  ever  follow- 
ing with  her  eyes  the  slight,  graceful  figure  in  crimson  vel- 
vet, laced  with  silver,  white-silk  hose  gathered  below  the 
knee  with  silver  braid,  and  shoes  in  which  there  glittered 
the  newly  introduced  silver  shoe-buckles. 

And  yet,  when  Hugo  drew  near,  that  curious  barrier  made 
itself  more  than  ever  felt  ;  they  were  no  longer  the  famil- 
iar friends  they  had  been.  She  was,  nevertheless,  glad  to 
dance  with  him,  and  when,  by  and  by,  he  had  found  at 
length  that  opportunity  for  uninterrupted  talk  for  which 
he  had  waited  so  long,  perhaps,  even  though  her  heart 
beat  painfully,  she  was  yet  glad  that  the  present  state  of 
things  should  have  iDeen  to  him  unbearable.  She  knew 
quite  well  what  he  was  going  to  say  ;  how  she  was  to  an- 
swer him  she  could  not  so  plainly  tell. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  his  voice  falling  very  sweetly  upon  her 
ear,  amid  all  the  uproar  of  general  conversation  and  the 
twanging  and  scraping  of  lutes  and  fiddles — "  Mary,  what 
has  come  betwixt  us  of  late?  I  ever  deemed  our  friendship 
of  too  long  standing  to  admit  of  any  change  save  that  of 
growth." 

"  Surely  it  must  change  as  we  grow  older,"  she  replied, 
in  as  matter-of-fact  a  voice  as  she  could  command.  "Not, 
of  course,  in  degree,  but  in  manner.  We  can  not  ever  be 
children." 

"  Must  age  stiffen  us — freeze  us  into  formality  ?"  ques- 
tioned Hugo. 

"  Nay,  I  said  not  so,"  replied  Mary,  smiling.  "  When  was 
I  ever  stiff  or  formal  in  your  company  ?" 

"  Those,  perchance,  were  cold  words  to  describe  what  I 
mean.  And  yet,  of  late,  I  have  ever  been  aware  of  some 
change  in  you,  in  your  manner." 

"  You  are  no  longer  the  Westminster  boy  with  whom  I 
used  to  play;  you  are  a  man  of  the  world;  you  begin  to 
mix  much  in  society  ;  how,  then,  should  you  find  all  as  it 


104  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

used  to  be  in  the  old  times?  We  have  both  of  us  left 
childhood  behind  us." 

"And  must  friendship  be  left  behind,  too?"  he  questioned. 

"You  mistake  my  meaning,"  said  Mary  ;  "  I  mean  only 
that  your  changed  life,  your  fresh  interests,  make  you  fancy 
a  change  in  me." 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  the  change  is  not  in  my  fancy  ;  never 
•will  you  persuade  me  of  that.  The  change  is  there,  and  it 
has  come  to  this,  that,  whereas  in  old  times  I  came  to  Nor- 
folk Street,  knowing  I  should  find  there  all  I  had  learned 
to  look  for,  now  I  come  there  in  dread,  or  in  an  expecta- 
tion which  is  ever  frustrated." 

"  How  mean  you  ?"  said  Mary,  falteringly.  Her  mask 
veiled  her  face  effectually,  but  something  of  agitation 
betrayed  itself  in  her  voice. 

"  There  !  I  have  vexed  you !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  full  of  self- 
reproach.  "  Do  not  for  one  moment  dream  that  the  house 
will  not  ever  be  a  home  to  me,  the  one  home  for  me  in  all 
London !  but  yet  of  late  it  has  come  to  pass  that  I  no 
longer  can  go  there  feeling  sure  of  you  as  I  once  did.  There 
has  been  some  change  in  you,  though  you  deny  it  never  so 
much." 

"  Hugo !"  she  exclaimed  impetuously,  "  I  have  treated 
you  ill.  And  you  are  quite  right,  there  has  been  some 
slight  change  in  my  manner.  I  tried  to  help  it,  but 
failed." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  said  Hugo,  bewildered.  "  Has 
any  slanderer  come  betwixt  us  with  some  idle  tale  ?" 

"  Nay,  there  has  been  no  slanderer,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 
"Think  you  that  I  would  credit  what  the  idle  gossips  Lave 
to  charge  you  with  ?  Come,  Hugo,  you  have  in  good  truth 
lost  all  trust  in  me  if  you  can  think  that." 

"  But  why,  then,  this  change  ?  "  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 

"It  was  my  own  foolish  fault,"  said  Mary,  speaking 
quickly,  forcibly,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  who  desires 
above  all  things  to  make  matters  clear.  "  I  thought  you 
would  no  longer  have  need  of  me  ;  I  thought,  after  that 
last  talk  we  had  on  the  night  of  the  play,  that  sisters — I 
had  been  a  sort  of  sister  to  you — were  no  longer  needed 
when  brides  are  found.  What  should  you  want  with  friends 
when  you  are  in  love,  you  foolish  boy  ?" 

In  truth,  had  Hugo  not  been  in  love  he  might  have  no- 
ticed that  the  little  laugh  which  ended  in  this  confession 
was  not  altogether  a  natural  one.  But  he  was  desperately 
in  love,  and  he  was  but  nineteen ;  moreover,  the  Duchess 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  105 

of  Grafton's  accusation  had  been  one  of  the  true  words 
spoken  in  jest — he  was  not  by  nature  observant. 

'•  How  could  you  think  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  the 
very  reason  that  makes  me  need  you  more  than  ever.  That 
day  you  cheered  and  comforted  me — made  it  seem  possible 
that  I  might  at  least  see  Mistress  Wharn cliff e  once  again. 
But  how  can  even  that  hope  satisfy  me,  if  you  turn  from 
me?  Do  without  you,  forsooth  !" 

Mary's  fingers  tightened  upon  the  handle  of  her  fan; 
for  a  minute  she  was  quite  silent,  and  very  still. 

"You  will  not  condemn  me  to  aught  so  miserable?" 
continued  Hugo,  pleadingly.  "  You  will  no  longer  dream 
that  I  can  spare  my  best  friend  ?  What  do  you  imagine 
my  life  would  have  been  had  it  not  been  for  you  ?" 

"  By  your  own  confession  I  have  rendered  you  misera- 
ble these  two  months,"  said  Mary,  with  a  very  tremulous 
smile.  "  But,  Hugo,  you  shall  never  again  feel  that  aught 
has  come  betwixt  us.  I  will  ever  believe  that  you  still 
have  need  of  a  sister,  and  you  shall  come  to  our  house 
when  you  will,  and  shall  learn  once  more  to  feel  sure  of 
me.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

Of  course  he  was  satisfied.  What  more  could  he  have 
desired  ?  And  she  herself  ?  Well,  with  her  matters  must, 
of  course,  be  very  different.  His  perfect  happiness  in- 
volved, though  he  little  thought  it,  her  loss.  But,  fer- 
vently wishing  his  happiness,  she  accepted  patiently  and 
contentedly  thVpart  assigned  her. 

Even  at  that  very  time,  when  Hugo  led  her  down  the 
hall  to  take  her  place  in  the  country-dance  which  was  just 
beginning,  she  was  not  exactly  unhappy.  He  needed  her 
still,  and,  moreover,  she  knew  now,  what  she  had  never  be- 
fore even  guessed,  that  she  had  been  a  power  and  an  in- 
fluence in  his  life.  That  night,  in  the  gay  throng  gathered 
in  Gray's  Inn  Hall,  there  were  many  who  bore  a  heavier 
heart  and  a  less  innocent  conscience  than^Mistress  Mary 
Denham. 


106  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTEE  X. 

PENSHTJKST. 

Detestable  bribes  !  worse  than  the  oaths  now  in  fashion  in  this 
mercenary  court.  I  mean  to  owe  neither  my  life  nor  my  liberty 
to  such  means.  When  the  innocence  of  my  actions  will  not  pro- 
tect me,  I  will  stay  away  till  the  storm  be  overpast.  .  .  I  must 
live  by  just  means,  or  serve  to  just  ends,  or  not  at  all. 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY. 

ONE  day  toward  the  end  of  April,  Hugo  happened  to 
meet  Colonel  Sidney  in  the  Park. 

"  You  are  the  very  man  I  wanted !"  exclaimed  the  re- 
publican. "Look  you,  on  the  morrow  I  go  down  to  Pens- 
hurst  for  a  fortnight's  rest  and  change.  Come  with  me, 
it  would  do  you  good." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  so  much  like,"  said  Hugo, 
his  heart  beating  high  with  happiness  at  the  prospect. 
"  An  my  brother  will  consent  to  it,  I  will  assuredly  come 
sir." 

"  I  had  forgot  your  guardian,"  said  Sidney.  "  But  get 
his  leave,  if  you  can,  for  I  would  fain  have  you  with  me  ; 
and  truly,  he  can  not  care  so  much  as  you  think  for  your 
making  your  way  at  court,  else  he  would  not  have  permit- 
ted you  to  make  my  acquaintance." 

As  he  spoke  he  glanced  rather  scornfully  in  the  direction 
of  the  water,  where  the  king  was  feeding  his  favorite 
ducks;  then,  his  face  softening  again,  he  nodded  kindly  to 
his  young  follower,  and  passed  on. 

Much  to  Hugo's  surprise,  Randolph  gave  a  ready  consent 
to  his  request,  and  the  next  morning  found  him  riding  into 
Kent  by  Sidney's  side,  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness. 

How  often,  in  after-days,  he  lived  over  again  that  mem- 
orable visit — and  how  little  he  thought  at  the  time  that 
the  calm  enjoyment  of  those  country  days,  the  rare  delight 
of  close  intercourse  with  that  great  mind,  were  to  fit  and 
prepare  him  for  meeting  a  sea  of  troubles. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spring  afternoon  when  they  dismount- 
ed at  the  great  door- way  of  Penshurst  Place.  Lord  Leices- 
ter was  at  his  London  house,  and  Hugo  was  by  no  means 
sorry  to  hear  of  his  absence,  for  he  knew  well  that  the  two 
brothers  were  not  on  good  terms  with  each  other,  and 
naturally  he  was  glad  to  have  his  friend  and  master  to 
himself. 

They  had  dined  on  the  road,  but  Sidney  ordered  supper 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  107 

to  be  served  at  an  early  hour  in  the  picture-gallery;  then, 
when  they  had  changed  their  dusty  traveling-dresses,  he 
took  Hugo  round  the  beautiful  old  house. 

"  You  must  learn  your  way  about,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  *Tis  not  so  hard  as  you  might  think  to  lose  your  way  in 
this  rambling  old  mansion." 

"  I  can  well  imagine  missing  the  way,"  said  Hugo,  de- 
lighting in  the  beautiful  rooms  as  only  a  poet  can.  "  I 
suppose  you,  sir,  know  it  all  by  heart  ?" 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  I  could  walk  it  blind- 
fold— every  inph  of  the  house  and  grounds  is  graven  on  my 
heart — and,  often,  in  exile,  have  I  roamed  in  imagination 
through  these  rooms,  and  grown  sick  for  another  sight  of 
the  old  home.  What  games  of  All-hid  we  used  to  have  ! 
The  place  wants  children  now  ;  it  feels  bare  and  cold. 
"Why  this  hall  where  we  now  stand — I  can  remember  it 
decked  out  with  greenery  for  the  Christmas  feast !  We 
all  feasted  together  that  one  day  of  the  year,  and  after  the 
good  old  custom,  the  retainers  at  yonder  side-tables,  and 
my  father  and  mother  and  the  guests  at  the  table  on  yon- 
der dais,  with  such  of  us  brats  as  could  behave  ourselves 
fitly.  Ah,  well !  Ah,  well !  'tis  like  enough  that  fifty  years 
should  bring  changes !  My  father  and  mother  dead — 
Henry  dead — Philip  estranged  from  me — Robert  a  courtier 
and  a  rake — pretty  Dorothy  the  beauty  of  by-gone  days — 
Isabella  ungrateful  and  cold,  though  I  did  my  best  for  her." 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Hugo's  presence,  and  to  be 
thinking  aloud.  Presently  he  recollected  himself. 

"  "Tis  a  fine  old  hall,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said,  looking  lovingly 
round  the  white  walls  with  their  groups  of  armor.  "Yon- 
der, in  that  black  gallery,  the  minstrels  played  on  high 
days  and  holidays,  and  through  those  archways  beneath  I 
can  well  remember  seeing  the  mummers  file  in  on  a  win- 
ter's night.  'Twas  here,  too,  that,  in  Commonwealth  days, 
we  acted  *  Coriolanus,'  which  same  acting  made  no  little 
stir,  and  was  even  construed  into  a  hit  at  the  Protector." 

They  left  the  hall,  and  Sidney  led  the  way  up  a  winding 
stone  staircase  and  into  a  large  wainscoted  room,  where  he 
paused  to  show  Hugo  a  picture  of  his  ancestor,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney. 

"  Oh,  is  that  Sir  Philip  ?"  said  Hugo,  eagerly.  "  I  have 
offen  wondered  what  the  face  could  have  been  on  which 
Hoyden  bestowed  such  high  praise;"  and  he  quoted  the 
well-known  lines  beginning, 

•"'A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace.'" 


108  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Sidney,  watching  him,  thought  the  words  would  have 
been  quite  as  appropriate  to  the  speaker,  but  he  only  said, 

"  Yes,  that  is  Philip  Sidney.  He  was  always  a  great 
hero  with  me  as  a  boy.  I  remember  coveting  my  brother's 
name,  and  vexing  myself  that  they  had  dubbed  me  with 
so  unwieldy  a  prefix  as  Algernon." 

Hugo  turned  from  the  young,  sweet,  intellectual  face  of 
the  ancestor  to  another  picture,  which  hung  near  the 
hearth.  He  recognized  it  instantly  ;  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  auburn  coloring,  the  sad  eyes,  the  grave,  austere 
face  of  the  patriot  upon  which,  even  thqn,  though  the 
picture  had  been  taken  many  years  ago,  sorrow  had  set  her 
seal." 

"This  face  for  me!"  he  exclaimed,  involuntarily.  "'Tis 
worth  fifty  Sir  Philips  !" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  think  so  ?"  said  Sidney,  while 
for  the  moment  something  of  the  sweet,  attractive  look  of 
his  ancestor  dawned  in  his  usually  grave  eyes.  "It  is  be- 
cause we  naturally  admire  those  who  are  our  opposites. 
No,  you  must  not  depreciate  my  hero  for  the  sake  of  cry- 
ing up  your  very  faulty  teacher.  Philip  Sidney  had  a 
happy  lot  ;  he  was  universally  beloved,  he  died  a  happy 
death,  and  his  generous  thought  for  another  has  set  a  high 
example  to  all  succeeding  generations.  "What  more  could 
a  man  wish  for  ?  This  room  we  are  coming  to  was  fur- 
nished for  Queen  Elizabeth;  but  we  will  not  linger  now, 
but  come  to  the  gallery  where  I  have  ordered  a  fire ;  the 
evenings  feel  chilly  to  me  after  my  long  stay  in  southern 
France." 

The  gallery  which  they  now  entered  was  a  noble  room, 
and  one  which  Sidney  preferred  to  any  other  in  the  house. 
Like  every  student,  he  loved  pacing  to  and  fro;  he  loved 
air  and  light  and  space.  Ducasse  had  arranged  his  books 
and  papers  for  him  on  a  table  near  the  great  window, 
while  a  second  table,  near  the  hearth,  was  prepared  for 
supper.  Mellow  sunset  light  filled  the  whole  place,  gild- 
ing the  polished  floor  and  the  wainscoted  walls,  lighting 
up  the  portraits  and  the  somewhat  stiff  array  of  high- 
backed  chairs  and  carved  tables  laden  with  great  china 
vases.  Hugo  looked  down  the  long  vista,  and  thought  he 
could  be  very  happy  here;  but,  close  to  the  door,  a  pic- 
ture of  three  children  brought  him  to  a  pause.  Sidney 
smiled. 

"  You  will  not  so  easily  recognize  this,  I  think." 

But  even  here  Hugo  was  not  at  fault.    Two  of  the  boys 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  109 

were  just  the  conventional  painted  children  of  by-gone 
times,  but  the  one  to  the  right  had  something  vigorous 
and  real  about  his  whole  attitude.  He  was  a  little  red- 
haired  fellow,  holding  a  hound  in  a  leash  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  grasping  a  staff.  There  was,  even  in 
his  childish  face,  a  trace  of  the  strength,  the  determina- 
tion, the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  man. 

Sidney  passed  on  with  a  sigh.  Perhaps  he  thought  of 
the  weary  years  of  sorrow  and  disappointment  which  had 
been  in  store  for  the  child;  perhaps  he  remembered  the 
unfulfilled  hopes  of  his  youth. 

They  sat  down  by  the  great  window  at  the  far  end  of 
the  apartment,  and  looked  out  into  the  dewy  garden,  with 
its  fair  lawns  and  well-kept  walks. 

"  You  are  satisfied  with  your  life  ?"  asked  Sidney,  after 
a  long  pause.  "  You  are  happy  ?" 

"  Quite  satisfied,"  said  Hugo,  quickly.  "  Quite  happy. 
It  has  been  a  wonderful  year  for  me." 

Sidney  seemed  about  to  put  some  other  question,  but 
he  checked  himself.  Was  it  not  natural  that  he  should  be 
satisfied — as  yet  ?  Life  had  brought  him  many  fair  things 
during  the  last  few  months,  and  he  had  not  yet  realized 
the  hollowness  of  the  world's  friendship — he  lived  in  a 
world  of  intrigue  without  being  aware  of  it — he  judged 
others  by  himself.  The  awakening  must  come  ere  long; 
but  Sidney  would  not  hasten  it,  he  would  only  prepare  his 
young  follower,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to  face  the  coming 
storm. 

And  so  a  peaceful  week  passed  by.  They  read  together, 
talked  together,  walked  together.  Sidney  was  busy  cor- 
recting a  manuscript,  written  some  years  previously.  He 
discussed  this  with  Hugo,  let  him  read  it  through,  and 
help  in  searching  for  various  references. 

One  morning  the  weather  was  so  mild  that  they  took 
their  books  out  into  the  park. 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  and  the  golden  sunshine  made 
the  grassy  slopes  of  that  lovely  place  look  like  a  little 
paradise.  The  giant  beech-trees  were  in  all  the  glory  of 
the  early  spring  green,  while  the  oaks  gave  a  touch  of 
somber  russet  to  the  landscape,  with  here  and  there  a  rosy 
tinge  where  the  buds  were  beginning  to  unfold  themselves. 
All  was  very  still;  nothing  was  to  be  heard  save  the  splash- 
ing of  the  waterfowl  in  the  lake,  the  singing  of  the  birds, 
the  soft  movements  of  the  deer  browsing  among  the  brake- 
fern,  and  now  and  then  faint  strains  of  very  distant  music, 


110  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

just  sufficient  to  remind  the  two  who  were  reveliv  g  in 
that  peaceful  quiet  that  somewhere  the  country-folk  were 
dancing  round  the  village  May-pole,  and  paying  homage 
to  some  pretty  May-queen. 

Hugo  was  stretched  at  full  length  on  the  velvety  turf, 
reading  the  last  pages  of  the  manuscript  of  those  "  Dis- 
courses on  Government"  of  which  later  on  so  much  was 
to  be  heard. 

Sidney  was  leaning  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
known  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  oak,  which  grew  not  far  from 
the  lake,  and  he  had  in  his  hand  a  small  volume  of  Plato. 
He  had  read  but  little,  however,  being  much  more  inclined 
to  watch  the  face  of  the  young  man  beside  him  and  mark 
his  progress  through  the  manuscript.  Hugo  was  fast  ap- 
proaching the  end,  and  the  writer  wondered  a  little  how 
the  work  on  which  he  had  spent  so  many  years  of  thought, 
so  much  arduous  labor,  would  affect  him.  The  thought 
came  to  him  as  it  must  have  come  to  many,  that  this  work 
of  his,  which  had  cost  him  so  much,  would,  if  read  by  many 
at  all,  be  read  cursorily,  would  perchance,  be  the  interest  of 
a  day  or  the  occupation  of  a  few  idle  moments,  and  then 
would  be  tossed  aside  and  forgotten.  The  writer  stands  in 
the  same  position  to  the  creations  of  his  brain  as  the 
parent  to  the  child.  He  alone  can  quite  understand  them, 
because  he  alone  has  lived  ever  with  them,  and  he  alone 
knows  all  they  have  cost. 

He  wondered  how  this  work  of  his  would  strike  Hugo 
Wharncliffe,  how  far  he  would  gather  from  his  work  what 
he  liad  intended  to  be  gathered.  For,  after  all,  words  are 
but  clumsy  means  of  communicating  thought,  and,  more- 
over, most  readers  read  themselves  and  their  prejudices  into 
every  book  they  handle. 

This  quiet  week  at  Penshurst  had  done  much — far  more 
than  Sidney  knew — toward  developing  within  his  guest  the 
love  of  country,  the  love  of  freedom,  above  all  the  love  of 
justice,  which  had  hitherto  lain  somewhat  dormant  in  his 
heart. 

The  rigid  discipline  of  Dr.  Busby,  the  tyranny  of  Ran- 
dolph, combined  with  the  reverential  devotion  which 
was  ingrained  in  his  nature,  had  not  been  favorable  to  the 
growth  of  these  virtues.  Nor  would  they  ever  have  sprung 
into  life  in  Hugo's  heart  had  he  not  seen  them  embodied 
in  a  man  whom  instinctively  he  worshiped.  He  was  not  as 
yet  capable  of  perceiving  the  true  and  beautiful  in  abstract; 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  Ill 

he  saw  them  only,  as  perhaps  most  of  us  see  them,  when 
embodied  in  human  beings,  either  immortalized  in  history 
or  actually  living.  But  under  Sidney's  guidance  he  waa 
growing  rapidly,  and  to  a  keen  observer  nothing  is  more 
fascinating  than  to  mark  this  sort  of  growth.  In  all  the 
anxieties,  in  all  the  national  griefs  of  that  time,  Sidney  was 
able  to  interest  himself  keenly  in  the  frequent  contact  with 
a  young,  fresh,  vigorous  mind  feeling  its  way  into  greater 
things.  Hugo's  devotion  was  very  sweet  to  him,  moreover, 
for  he  was  at  that  time  strangely  friendless,  and  everywhere 
regarded  as  one  with  whom  it  would  be  impolitic  to  culti- 
vate a  close  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  this  when  he  spoke  next  to 
Hugo.  The  young  man  had  turned  the  last  leaf  of  the 
manuscript,  had  read  the  last  words  of  the  notable  "  Dis- 
courses," and  was  in  truth  almost  burdened  by  the  feeling 
that  beside  him  stood  the  writer,  this  man  who  had  studied 
the  theory  of  government  more  deeply  than  any  man  of 
that  age. 

"  So  you  have  ended  your  task,"  said  Sidney,  with  a  smile. 
"  How  now,  are  you  not  somewhat  taken  aback  to  find  your- 
self the  guest  of  one  who  writes  what  some  would  account 
treason  ?  Bethink  yourself!  Were  it  not  better  to  with- 
draw from  the  acquaintance  of  such  a  one  ?" 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  with  a  jesture  of  eager  protest, 
"  say  not  such  words  even  in  jest." 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  Sidney,  "  that  so  coldly  prudent  a 
thought  would  be  slow  to  rise  in  your  generous  heart.  But 
in  truth,  Hugo,  I  must  warn  you  that  there  is  verily  some 
risk  to  you  in  being  accounted  my  friend." 

"  If  so,  then  I  gladly  take  the  risk,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 
"  And,  should  it  indeed  ever  be  that  the  giving  is  not 
wholly  on  your  side,  then  I  shall  be  right  happy." 

The  elder  man  looked  sadly,  and  yet  with  much  tender- 
ness, at  the  eager  face  of  the  youth,  who  spoke  so  warmly, 
so  promptly,  words  which  would  involve  so  much. 

"  I  see  no  cause  for  immediate  anxiety,"  he  said.  "But 
the  Whig  party  is  now  in  grave  peril.  Monmouth's  cause 
not  yet  ripe,  and  even  the  city  won  over  by  foul  means  to 
the  interests  of  the  court.  For  the  time  I  see  naught  that 
can  be  done  save  to  keep  quiet,  and  to  prepare  the  people 
for  the  next  election,  that  they  may  perceive  their  rights 
and  their  duties.  Yet  even  now,  while  the  nation  groans 
under  the  yoke  of  the  Stuarts,  there  is  much  servile  adu- 
lation of  the  king.  Heard  you  the  song  which  was  sung 


112  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

not  long  since  at  the  lord  mayor's  banquet  ?    A  descrip- 
tion of  his  majesty,  forsooth ! 

"'In  whom  all  the  virtues  are  fitly  combined.' " 

The  words  were  such  a  grotesque  mockery  that  Hugo 
oould  not  restrain  a  laugh. 

"  I  bear  no  ill-will  to  his  majesty,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
"  But  yet  this  fawning  servility  doth  disgust  one." 

"  Ay,"  said  Sidney.  "  And  can  you  wonder,  then,  that 
before  me  is  ever  a  vision  of  the  time  when  the  foul  flat- 
tery, the  arrogant  pride  of  such  courts  shall  be  forever 
done  away  ?  Not  long  since  I  had  with  me  in  this  very 
place  the  laws  which  my  friend  Penn  framed  in  concert 
with  myself  for  his  new  province,  his  fair  Utopia  over  the 
seas.  But  I'  faith  it  was  ofttimes  sad  work  to  copy  fair 
those  laws  for  a  foreign  land,  while  my  own  land  was  in 
slavery." 

"  Tell  me,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  "  what  were  the  chief est  im- 
provements devised  in  those  laws  ?  How  did  they  differ 
from  our  own  ?" 

"  Briefly  I  will  sketch  them  to  you,"  said  Sidney.  "  They 
are  to  have  two  legislative  chambers,  both  of  them  elected 
by  universal  suffrage.  They  are  to  have  annual  parlia- 
ments, and  no  property  qualification  for  members.  They 
are  to  have  vote  by  ballot,  perfect  freedom  in  all  religious 
matters,  universal  education,  abolition  of  the  death  pen- 
alty for  all  crimes  save  murder  and  treason.  Idleness  is 
to  be  punished  as  a  vice,  prisons  are  to  be  used  as  houses 
of  education  and  industry,  in  the  hope  of  raising  the  in- 
mates, instead  of  as  now  hopelessly  degrading  them,  and 
last,  but  not  least,  though  your  profession  may  not  bless 
us,  fees  of  law  are  to  be  fixed  at  a  low  rate,  and  to  be  hung 
up  in  all  courts  of  justice." 

"  'Twill  verily  be  an  Utopia,"  exclaimed  Hugo,  amazed 
at  the  novelty  and  the  daring  character  of  the  reforms,  as 
indeed  he  might  well  be,  seeing  that  Penn  and  Sidney 
were  two  hundred  years  at  least  in  advance  of  their  time, 
and  propounded  schemes  which  were  none  of  them  adopted 
in  En-gland  till  the  the  nineteenth  century,  and  for  want 
of  some  of  which  the  nation  yet  suffers. 

"  That  will  be  the  basis  of  the  constitution,  and  the  peo- 
ple themselves  will  have  the  power  of  advancing  upon 
that  basis.  The  power  is  in  their  hands.  Utopia,  you 
think !"  he  smiled  a  little.  "  Well,  perhaps — or  we  will 
cay  a  free  land,  which  is  the  same  thing  in  other  words." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  113 

Hugo  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  the  loveliness  of  the 
surroundings,  the  glad  spring-time,  the  sweet  sights  and 
gweet  sounds  filled  his  heart  with  a  strange  pain.  Like 
the  hectic  beauty  of  one  dying  with  consumption,  fair  na- 
ture seemed  but  the  outer  veil  of  a  hideous  disease;  for, 
alas !  alas !  in  this  land,  this  very  land  vhere  the  grass  was 
so  green,  the  landscape  so  fair,  the  people  were  daily  fall- 
ing more  and  more  under  the  tyrannical  power  of  a  mon- 
arch who  was  great  in  nothing  but  double-dealing,  and 
had  not  even  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  like  the  far  less 
popular  Duke  of  York.  Faintly  he  began  to  perceive  the 
evils  of  the  present,  and  yet  it  was  well-nigh  impossible 
for  one  brought  up  as  he  had  been  altogether  to  agree 
with  Sidney's  views.  He  was  not  yet  capable  of  grasping 
them  in  their  entirety,  while,  as  to  entering  into  any  sort 
of  action  which  would  be  contrary  to  Randolph's  liking, 
the  thought  was  torture  to  him.  Luckily  there  was  as  yet 
no  question  as  to  action;  as  yet  it  was  possible  to  stand 
aloof  and  study  each  side. 

Even  as  he  mused,  he  was  watching  a  figure  which  had 
just  emerged  from  behind  the  clump  of  trees  between  the 
Oak  and  Lancup  Well.  It  proved  to  be  Ducasse  bearing 
a  letter,  and  the  letter  was  for  Hugo.  Somehow,  as  he 
opened  it,  a  cloud  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  day,  and  a  chill 
foreboding  filled  his  heart. 

It  was  from  Randolph,  and  consisted  of  a  peremptory 
command  to  return  to  London  that  very  day.  He  had 
need  of  him. 

He  handed  the  square  sheet  to  Sidney  without  a  word, 
but  it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  the  summons  was  most 
unwelcome.  Moreover,  he  was  now  old  enough  to  feel  the 
injustice  of  sending  him  no  word  of  explanation,  of  requir- 
ing him  to  forego  what  he  so  greatly  prized,  while  giving 
no  reason  whatever. 

"  You  must  in  truth  go  ?"  questioned  Sidney. 

"  Ay,  sir,  and  without  delay,"  he  replied. 

Sidney  was  silent  for  a  minute.  He  in  his  young  days 
had  suffered  much  from  the  undue  harshness  of  his 
father's  treatment,  and  he  felt  sorry  for  this  youth,  who 
was  far  less  capable  than  he  had  been  of  endurance. 
Plucking  a  leaf  from  the  oak-tree  to  mark  his  place  in  his 
book,  he  turned  to  Hugo. 

"  My  eon,  it  has  long  been  in  my  mind  to  say  one  thing 
to  you.  We  have  learned  to  know  each  other,  and  I  have 
not  had  you  thus  closely  with  me  these  days  without  noting 


114:  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

that  in  you  which  assures  me  that  you  will  in  many  mat- 
ters have  to  go  through  life  more  or  less  as  a  solitary.  I 
too  had  to  learn  that  lesson  early  in  life.  The  time  will 
assuredly  OCTT>C  H^-  701:  rail  find  yourself  differing  from 
your  brother ;  prepare  yourself  for  that  time,  that  when  it 
comes  you  may  be  strong  to  meet  it." 

Hugo  winced.  The  mere  mention  of  a  difference  with 
Bandolph  was  keenly  painful  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sidney,  marking  his  expression,  "  'tis  not 
always  those  who  give  their  lives  for  their  country  who 
serve  her  at  greatest  cost ;  many  things  are  more  to  be  ap- 
prehended than  a  hatchet.  I  mind  me  long  years  ago 
using  those  very  words  to  my  father  when  the  sense  of  his 
displeasure  and  continued  neglect  weighed  far  more  with 
me  than  the  risk  of  secret  assassination.  You  are  in  some 
ways  more  fit  to  stand  alone  than  I  was." 

"  More  fit,  sir !"  echoed  Hugo,  amazed. 

"  Ay,  though  you  looked  surprised,  'tis  nathless  true," 
said  Sidney,  with  a  smile.  "  For  the  best  part  of  your  life 
has  been  lived  with  books  rather  than  with  men,  like  my 
friend  Pallavicini,  and  therefore  loneliness  will  press  on 
you  the  less  heavily.  It  was  not  till  I  was  nigh  upon  forty 
that  I  learned  to  have  my  conversation  with  birds,  trees, 
and  books,  and  to  suffice  unto  myself." 

"  Was  that  during  your  stay  in  Italy,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  during  a  summer  I  spent  at  Frascati.  There  I  fell 
with  some  eagerness  to  reading,  and  found  so  much  satis- 
faction in  it  that  though  I  every  morning  saw  the  sun  rise, 
yet  I  never  went  abroad  till  six  or  seven  of  the  clock  at 
night.  Now  this  hermit  life  is  by  nature  tasteful  to  you, 
and  therefore  you  may  perchance  mind  solitude  and  en- 
forced inaction  less  than  I  have  done." 

They  walked  slowly  toward  the  house  while  talking,  for 
Hugo  was  too  promptly  obedient  to  neglect  even  for  an  in- 
stant Randolph's  peremptory  command.  He  would  not 
consent  to  wait  even  for  the  one  o'clock  dinner,  but  beg- 
ged that  his  horse  might  at  once  be  saddled.  Neverthe- 
less, there  was  some  little  delay,  for  which  in  his  heart  he 
"blessed  the  grooms,  and  in  the  meantime  Sidney  paced  to 
and  fro  with  him  in  the  avenue,  which  was  called  Saccharis- 
sa's  Walk,  in  memory  of  Sidneys's  beautiful  sister  Dorothy, 
immortalized  by  Waller  under  that  name.  But  Hugo  be- 
stowed no  thought  upon  the  daily  walks  which  the  "  match- 
less dame  "  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  in  that  stately 
aisle ;  he  could  think  only  of  the  grave,  strong,  thoughtful 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  115 

face  beside  him,  grave,  even  to  sternness,  and  yet  to  him 
never  lacking  tender  kindliness.  Through  the  fresh  green 
of  the  trees  there  nickered  the  golden  May  sunshine,  and 
the  birds  sung  with  a  joyous  recklessness  which  was  just 
now  ill  in  accord  with  the  heaviness  of  Hugo's  heart.  Ho 
could  not  have  put  his  dread  into  words,  but  it  was  there, 
a  deadly  oppression,  weighing  down  his  heart  like  lead. 
He  put  into  words  the  more  definite  fear  which  Sidney's 
speech  by  Lancup  Well  had  suggested  to  him. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  trust  I  am  no  coward,  but  yet  I  own 
that  the  thought  of  a  difference  with  my  brother  doth 
trouble  me.  I  fear  that  naught  could  make  me  insensible 
to  it." 

"  He  that  is  not  sensible  of  such  things  must  be  an  angel 
or  a  beast,"  said  Sidney.  "  And  I  can  well  deem  that  to 
you  the  prospect  of  any  difference  is  a  species  of  torture. 
For  that  very  reason  I  spoke  to  you.  What  if  it  be  torture  ? 
dread  it  not !  what  if  it  cripple  your  life,  as  mine  has  been 
crippled?  still,  dread  it  not.  Believe  me,  lad,  there  is 
naught  in  this  world  to  be  dreaded  save  sin  and  shame." 

Into  Hugo's  mind  there  flashed  the  recollection  of  that 
stealthy  visit  to  Mondisfield  Hall.  Never  once  during  the 
peaceful  visit  to  Penshurst  had  his  skeleton  stalked  forth 
from  its  cupboard,  but  now  it  made  itself  hatefully  appar- 
ent, walking  with  him  through  that  beautiful  avenue, 
choking  him  with  its  deadly  power. 

"  What  can  one  do  when  duties  seem  to  clash  ?"  he  said. 
"  Ah,  sir,  they  must  oft  have  done  so  in  your  life,  perchance 
even  now  they  may  do  so.  Tell  me — in  such  a  case,  what 
do  you  do  ?" 

In  his  tone  was  all  the  suppressed  eagerness,  the  sub- 
dued emotion  of  one  who,  in  sore  distress,  turns  to  a  strong- 
er, older,  wiser  nature,  with  the  instinct  that  in  age  and 
experience  the  true  counselors  are  to  be  found. 

Sidney  walked  for  a  few  paces  in  silence.  When  he 
replied,  he  looked  not  at  Hugo,  but  far  out  beyond  the 
trees,  where  shadows  of  flickering  gleams  of  sunlight 
broadened  into  one  wide  expanse  of  uninterrupted  bright- 
ness." 

"  I  walked  in  the  light  God  hath  given  me,"  he  said,  with 
a  grave  simplicity.  "If  it  be  dim  or  uncertain  I  must 
bear  the  penalty  of  my  errors." 

Before  anything  more  had  passed  a  servant  approached 
to  tell  him  that  the  horse  was  ready.  Ducasse  had  col- 


116  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

lected  Hugo's  possessions  and  there  was  no  excuse  for 
further  delay. 

"  Take  this  little  volume  as  a  remembrance  of  your  visit," 
said  Sidney,  placing  in  his  hand  the  book  he  had  been 
reading  beneath  the  oak-tree;  it  was  the  "Republic"  of  Plato. 

Feeling  like  one  in  a  dream,  Hugo  uttered  thanks  and 
farewells,  grasped  Sidney's  hand,  then  mounted  his  chest- 
nut, and,  gathering  up  the  reins,  started  on  his  journey. 
What  was  this  weight  at  his  heart  ?  Why  did  this  awful 
foreboding  overcome  him  ?  The  oppression  grew  intoler- 
able, and  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  turned  back  to  the 
great  door-way,  where  Sidney  stood  alone,  the  servants 
having  returned  to  the  house. 

"  Has  Ducasse  forgotten  aught  ?"  questioned  Sidney,  as 
the  young  man  dismounted. 

"  Naught,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  once  again  grasping  his  hand. 
"  Pardon  me,  and  think  me  not  in  very  truth  a  coward,  but 
there  is  over  me  a  sense  of  coming  trouble,  and  I  can  not 
shake  it  from  me." 

"  You  are  overfinely  strung  for  this  hard  world,"  said 
Sidney,  "  Nathless  all  the  more  for  that  very  reason  it  be- 
hooves you  to  dread  nothing.  '  Sanctus  amor  patrise  dat 
animum.'  Forget  not  our  motto.  We  shall  meet  again  in 
London.  Farewell,  my  son." 

And  therewith  the  strong  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder 
for  a  minute,  and  in  silence — a  silence  which  he  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  break — he  bade  a  last  farewell  to  Algernon 
Sidney. 

In  the  dreary  numbness  of  feeling  which  fell  upon  him 
as  once  more  he  resumed  his  way,  he  raised  himself  in  his 
stirrups  and  turned  for  a  last  glance  at  the  place.  One 
more  look  at  that  noble  front,  at  those  battlemented  towersj 
one  more  look  at  the  great  door-way  still  visible  between 
the  beech-trees  ;  one  more  look  at  the  figure  in  the  plain 
brown  doublet  and  broad-brimmed  Spanish  beaver.  Why 
did  those  last  words,  * '  We  shall  meet  again  in  London," 
return  to  him  so  persistently,  and  with  such  a  melancholy 
cadence  ?  If  they  met  again,  then  all  would  be  well,  and 
this  hateful  foreboding  which  chilled  him  through  and 
through  would  prove  a  device  of  the  fiend's,  designed  to 
weaken  and  depress  him.  It  should  do  nothing  of  the  kind ! 
And  putting  his  horse  into  a  hand-gallop,  he  rode  rapidly 
through  the  fair  Kentish  woods,  driving  out  fears  for  the 
future  with  the  words  of  Sidney's  motto,  "  Holy  love  of 
country  gives  courage." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  117 

CHAPTER   XI. 

WILL'S  COFFEE-HOUSE. 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  nurse. 

SPENSER. 

THE  sun  was  getting  low  when  Hugo,  having  ridden  as 
hard  as  the  state  of  the  roads  would  permit,  reached  Lon- 
don. Even  the  sight  of  his  beloved  Abbey  could  not  cheer 
him;  there  was  no  denying  that  this  sudden  return  was 
highly  distasteful  to  him,  and,  weary  with  his  long  ride  and 
the  heat  of  the  May  day,  he  made  his  way  on  with  grave- 
ness  bordering  on  dejection.  On  past  Charing  Cross,  and 
along  the  Strand,  with  its  continuous  row  of  houses  and 
shops  on  the  northern  side,  and  its  noble  mansions  with 
gardens  stretching  to  the  river  on  the  south ;  on  through 
the  busy  throng  of  people,  the  clatter  of  tongues,  the 
ceaseless  noise  of  street  traffickers  who  filled  the  air  with 
their  shrill  cries,  "Buy  a  dish  of  flounders,"  mingling  with 
the  cry  of  "Ballads,  ballads,  fyne  new  ballads;"  and  "Fyne 
oate  cakes,"  getting  hopelessly  mixed  with  "  Quick  peri- 
winkles;" while  ever  from  the  busy  chapmen  at  the  shop 
doors  there  was  a  ceaseless  refrain  of  "  What  d'you  lack  ? 
What  d'you  lack?" 

Reaching  at  length  the  quiet  of  King's  Bench  Walk,  he 
found  no  one  within  but  old  Jeremiah. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  master,  right  glad,"  said  the  old  ser- 
vant. "And  you  look  all  the  better  for  your  stay  in  the 
country." 

"Ay,  I  am  well  enough,*'  said  Hugo,  somewhat  wearily. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all,  Jerry  ?  Why  doth  my  bro- 
ther send  for  me  ?" 

* '  In  truth,  lad,  I  know  not,"  said  Jerry,  brushing  the 
traveler's  dusty  cloak  while  he  spoke.  "  He  hath  not  been 
well  the  last  two  days,  and  may  be  that  is  the  reason  he 
needs  you." 

"Unwell!  Randolph  unwell!"  exclaimed  Hugo.  "Then  I 
am  right  glad  he  sent  for  me.  Did  he  leave  no  message 
for  me  where  to  find  him  ?" 

"  Ay,  lad,  he  said  an  you  came  before  night  you  were  to 
go  to  him  at  Will's  he  would  be  there  till  eight  of  the  clock." 

"  Then  I  will  go  to  him  at  once,"  said  Hugo,  promptly. 
"  No,"  as  Jeremiah  would  fain  have  detained  him,  "  I  can 


118  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

rest  there  as  well  as  here.    Lock  up  the  place,  Jerry,  and 
take  a  turn  yourself,  these  chambers  feel  stifling." 

He  hurried  away,  and  emerging  from  the  quiet  regions 
of  the  Temple,  once  more  found  himself   in  the  realms  of 
noise  and  confusion.    Passing    through  Temple  Bar,  he 
made  his  way  through  the  ranks  of  hackney  coaches  which 
stood  for  hire  in  the  open  space  around  the  lofty  May-pole 
in  the  Strand.     This  had  stood  there  since  the  Eestoration, 
but  since  a  great  gale  in  1602  had  been  shorn  of  a  third  of 
its  height.  This  evening  it  was  gayly  decorated,  and  a  merry 
throng  had  gathered  round   it  in  spite  of  the  grumbling  of 
the  hackney  coachmen,  who  would  not  budge  an  inch  from 
their  lawful  territory,  and   preferred  all  the  pushing  and 
jostling  of  the   merrymakers    to  a  cession  of  their  rights. 
Turning  into  the  comparative  quiet  of  Drury  Lane,  Hugo 
made  his  way  to  Will's  coffee-house,  \\hich  was  near  Covent 
Garden,  at  the  western  corner  of  Bow  Street.    This  coffee- 
house was  the  great  emporium  of  libels  and  scandals,  but 
it  was  one  of  the  best,  notwithstanding,  and  had  acquired 
the  sobriquet  of  the  ""Wits'  Coffee-House."    Hugo  of  ten  fre- 
quented it  for  the  sake  of   hearing  the  talk  of  the  poets, 
authors,  and  celebrities  who  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
there.     This  evening,  as  he  made  his  way  up  stairs  in  the 
fading  evening  light  to  the  chief  room,  he  found  it  crowded. 
There  was  an  air  of  ease  and  liberty  about  the  place,  while 
the  faces  of  those  who    lounged  at  the  tables  were,  as  a 
rule,  worth  looking  at.      Some  were  supping,  others  smok- 
ing, others  reading  the  "  Observator,"  Roger  North's  spite- 
ful paper,  or  the  Tory  and  "Whig  journals  of  the  day.  Julian, 
the  drunken  and  disreputable   fellow  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  distributing  the  latest  lampoons,  stood  near  the  door 
with  a  sheaf  of  papers  in   his  hand,  many  of  which  were 
already  circulating  in  the   room,  and  which  consisted  of 
some  disgusting  verses  on  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.    There 
was  a  buzz  of  general  conversation,  and  at  first  Hugo  could 
nowhere  see  his  brother  in  the  crowded  room.    Looking  for 
him,  however,  he  caught  sight  of  Matthew  Prior,  rather  to 
his  surprise— for  by  rights  he  should  have  been  at  Cam- 
bridge— and  the  old  school-fellows  shook  hands  with  each 
other.     Prior  was  a  pleasant  fellow  enough,  but  already  a 
little  spoiled  by  his  high  opinion  of  his  own  powers,  and 
by  the  patronage  of  my  Lord  Dorset. 

"Art  looking  for  old  Dryden  ?"  he  asked,  irreverently. 
"  He  was  here  but  a  half  Lour  since.  Some  one  happened 
to  breathe  a  word  of  Bose  Alley,  however,  and  the  old 


IN  I'HU  GOLDEN  BATS.  119 

gentleman  immediately  found  the  room  too  hot  for 
him." 

A  few  years  before  the  poet  had  been  attacked  by 
hired  ruffians  on  his  way  to  his  house  in  Gerard  Street, 
and  shamefully  beaten.  The  masked  villains  escaped,  and 
were  never  discovered;  but  every  one  was  aware  that  the 
insult  had  been  planned  by  Rochester,  to  gratify  his  pri- 
vate spite.  The  laureate  never  heard  the  last  of  it,  how- 
ever, and  to  his  dying  day  his  enemies  cast  the  "  disgrace" 
in  his  teeth. 

"  The  Kose  Alley  ambuscade,  disgraced  the  perpetrators 
more  than  the  victim,  to  my  mind,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 
For  although  Sidney's  indignation  with  "The  Duke  of 
Guise"  had  shaken  his  former  admiration  of  Dryden,  yet 
he  was  of  too  generous  a  nature  to  tolerate  such  a  refer- 
ence to  the  shameful  ill-treatment  of  one  who  was  no 
longer  young. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  brother  ?"  he  questioned. 

"  Ay,  there  he  is  in  the  balcony,  and  Dryden,  too,"  said 
Prior. 

Thither,  accordingly,  Hugo  made  his  way.  He  found  a 
group  of  men  lounging  about  the  balcony,  smoking  and 
listening  to  the  talk  of  an  old  man  in  a  suit  of  purple 
cloth,  who  sat  in  the  midst  of  them  in  the  arm-chair  \*iiich 
had  long  been  consecrated  to  his  sole  use,  and  which  this 
evening  had  been  moved  from  the  hearth  to  its  summer 
quarters  in  the  balcony.  Apparently  they  had  been  speak- 
ing of  his  recent  poem,  "  Beligio  Laid.  ;"  and,  as  far  as 
Hugo  could  make  out,  Randolph,  who  had  not  yet  perceived 
him,  was  urging  the  poet  to  write  a  fresh  play,  and  prov- 
ing that  the  stage  was  the  real  place  from  which  to  teach 
the  people. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  poet,  a  smile  on  his  wrinkled  faoe — "  Ay, 
Betterton,  thou  art  the  preacher  of  the  Golden  Age." 

He  had  turned  to  a  pleasant-looking  man  of  about  eight- 
and-forty  who  stood  leaning  against  the  window-frame 
close  to  Hugo.  He  was  the  great  tragedian  of  the  day,  a 
man  as  much  beloved  for  his  personal  amiability  as  for  his 
great  gifts. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied  ;  "  you  are  the  teacher  and  preacher; 
I  am  but  the  mouthpiece.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Wharncliffe  is 
right ;  the  stage  is  the  national  pulpit." 

"What  would  our  divines  say  to  such  a  bold  state- 
ment ?"  said  Dryden.  "  They'll  be  raking  up  the  ancient 
statute,  Betterton,  and  denying  you  Christian  burial !" 


120  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"  Nay,  that  was  but  in  France,  an  I  remember  right," 
said  Betterton,  laughing.  "  And  it  was  but  of  late  that  Dr. 
Tillotson  said  to  me  these  very  words.  Said  he,  'How 
comes  it  about  that  after  I  have  made  the  most  moving 
discourse  I  can,  am  touched  deeply  with  it  myself,  and 
speak  it  as  feelingly  as  I  am  able,  yet  I  can  never  move 
people  in  the  church  near  as  much  as  you  do  on  the 
stage  r 

"  And  what  reply  made  you  ?"  asked  Dryden. 

"  I  replied  that  it  seemed  to  me  easily  to  be  accounted 
for,  since  he  was  only  telling  them  a  story,  and  I  showed 
them  facts." 

"A  good  answer,  and  true,  very  true,"  said  Dryden. 
"  The  stage  is  a  great  power !  Ha !  is  not  that  my  silver- 
voiced  youth,  catching  sight  of  Hugo,  and  nodding  pleas- 
antly to  him. 

^Randolph  turned  to  greet  him,  and  was  not  ill-pleased  to 
see  him  being  made  much  of  by  the  great  poet  and  the 
first  actor  of  the  day.  Hugo  took  it  all,  as  was  his  habit, 
very  quietly,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  graceful  deference  in 
his  manner  to  the  elder  man  which  being  quite  free  from 
flattery  or  adulation,  had  a  great  charm. 

Dryden  was  pressing  him  to  sing,  but  the  actor,  with  his 
ready  observation  and  knowledge  of  faces,  at  once  per- 
ceived that  he  was  hungry  and  tired. 

"  Wait  till  he  has  supped,"  he  said,  "  and  presently  let 
us  ask  him  for  the  May-day  song."  Then,  linking  his  arm 
within  Hugo's,  he  drew  him  back  into  the  room.  "  Come, 
we  will  sup  together,"  he  said.  "I,  too,  am  hungry,  and 
you,  an  I  mistake  not,  are  just  off  a  journey." 

Supper  ended,  Hugo  began  to  tune  the  lute  which  was 
brought  to  him  by  one  of  the  attendants,  and  then,  as  Dry- 
den again  besought  him  for  a  song,  he  sung,  "  Come,  lasses 
and  lads,"  with  so  much  spirit,  and  with  such  rare  sweet- 
ness of  tone  that  the  whole  assembly  applauded,  and  were 
inclined  to  grumble  when  Randolph,  at  a  much  earlier 
hour  than  usual,  took  his  departure,  signing  to  his  brother 
to  accompany  him. 

Perhaps,  considering  that  all  the  world  was  inclined  to 
treat  Hugo  almost  caressingly  in  deference  to  his  youth 
and  his  unassuming  modesty,  his  great  talents  and  his 
beautiful  face,  it  was  as  well  for  his  character  that  he 
met  with  the  very  reverse  of  this  treatment  in  his  home  life ; 

Randolph  walked  him  home  in  dead  silence — a  silence 
which,  though  Hugo  longed  to  know  the  reason  of  his  sud- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  121 

den  recall  from  Penshurst,  he  did  not  dare  to  break.  But 
when  they  had  reached  the  Temple  his  guardian's  stern 
brow  cleared,  and,  as  if  returning  from  an  anxious  reverie, 
he  said,  abruptly  : 

"  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  you,  boy.  Come  with  me  ; 
we  will  take  a  turn  in  the  gardens." 

"  Jeremiah  saith  you  have  been  unwell,"  said  Hugo,  ven- 
turing at  last  to  speak. 

"  Tis  true,  and  partly  for  that  reason  I  sent  for  you. 
But  chiefly  I  sent  because  I  have  a  letter  from  Sir  Pere- 
grine Blake,  and  he,  very  courteously  desiring  that  by- 
gones may  be  bygones,  bids  us  both  to  his  house,  for  the 
coming  of  age  of  his  eldest  son." 

The  brothers  were  pacing  up  and  down  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple garden,  and  Hugo  was  thankful  that  the  place  was 
almost  dark,  for  he  could  not  conceal  his  annoyance.  That 
he  should  have  been  dragged  from  Penshurst  to  go  down 
to  the  Suffolk  magistrate's  house  seemed  to  him  almost 
intolerable. 

"  Surely,"  he  began,  "  surely  the  mere  fact  of  our  duel 
might  excuse  me  from  going  ;  I  have  no  wish  to — " 

Randolph  interrupted  him  with  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"  Who  asked  if  you  had  a  wish  ?  I  know  naught  of 
wishes  in  the  matter."  He  paused,  wondering  whether  to 
tell  his  plans  or  not. 

"  But — "  began  Hugo. 

"  Not  another  word  I"  said  Kandolph,  peremptorily.  "  Be 
ready  to  start  with  me  at  noon  to-morrow,  and  let  me  hear 
no  more  of  this  nonsense." 

With  that  he  hastily  left  him;  but  Hugo  lingered  in  the 
dusky  garden,  struggling  with  a  miserable  sense  of  coming 
ill  which  beset  him  once  again  much  as  it  bad  done  when 
he  left  Penshurst.  And  the  river  flowed  darkly  on,  and 
one  by  one  the  stars  shone  forth  in  the  dim  gray  skies, 
and  the  night  wind  sprung  up,  carrying  on  its  breath  the 
scent  of  the  early  roses  in  the  garden  drenched  with  dew. 
But  Hugo  heeded  nothing,  only  wrestled  despairingly  with 
this  phantom  of  coming  ill  which  nothing  would  banish 
from  his  mind.  At  length,  worn  out,  he  went  back  to  the 
rooms  in  King's  Bench  Walk,  but  even  in  sleep  the  horri- 
ble oppression  followed  him,  and  he  struggled  all  night  in 
an  imaginary  net  which,  as  fast  as  he  broke  its  meshes, 
closed  up  afresh,  and  eternally  baffled  his  efforts  at  escape. 
It  was  with  a  momentary  sense  of  rapture  that  he  was 
roused  once  again  to  the  world  of  realities  by  the  familiar 


122  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS, 

bell  and  the  deep  voice   of  the  watchman  proclaiming, 
"  Past  four  o'clock,  and  a  fine  windy  morning." 

That  hateful  net  was  gone !  he  sprung  up  and  looked 
forth.  He  was  free  and  in  his  own  world,  and  there  was 
the  old  watchman  in  the  gray  morning  light,  with  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  and  long  coat  girt  in  at  the  waist,  tho 
lantern  shedding  a  sickty  yellow  gleam  on  the  point  of  his 
halberd.  There,  too,  were  the  familiar  trees  opposite,  and 
the  birds  already  beginning  to  quarrel  and  chatter,  and  in 
the  distance  he  could  hear  the  rumbling  of  market-carts  in 
Fleet  Street.  Four  o'clock — and  at  noon  he  was  to  start 
on  his  uncongenial  journey.  Ah,  well!  the  net  of  his 
dreams  had  passed  away,  and  yet  he  was  environed  by  a 
strangely  tangled  web  of  circumstances, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    COSTLY    MUMMING. 

Oh,  that  a  man  might  know 

The  end  of  this  day's  business  ero  ID  come! 

But  it  sufficeth  that  the  day  will  end, 

And  then  the  end  is  known.  — Julius  Ccesar. 

THE  fine  windy  morning  heralded  by  the  watchman 
proved  to  be  one  of  those  glorious  spring  days  when  city 
streets  seem  well-nigh  intolerable,  and  every  one  longs  for 
the  country.  Hurrying  to  Norfolk  Street  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  bid  farewell  to  the  Denhams,  Hugo  met  with  nothing 
but  expressions  of  envy,  nor  did  any  one  but  Mary  under- 
stand his  reluctance  to  be  the  guest  of  Sir  Peregrine  Blake. 
Spite,  however,  of  his  reluctance,  Hugo  was  too  young  and 
too  impressionable  not  to  feel  ere  long  a  certain  pleasure 
in  turning  his  back  on  the  streets  of  London,  and  riding 
out  into  the  open  country,  not,  indeed,  such  exquisite 
country  as  he  had  had  around  him  at  Penshurst,  but  rich, 
level  tracts,  beautiful  with  spring  flowers,  and  full  of  that 
sense  of  life  and  growth  which  is  typical  of  a  mild  morn- 
ing of  early  May.  Larks  singing  overhead,  sparrows  chirp- 
ing in  every  bush,  lambs  bleating  in  the  fields,  and  huge 
black  rooks  swooping  about  hither  and  thither  with  deep 
caws,  supplying  the  bass,  as  it  were,  to  the  rural  symphony. 

Randolph  was  in  an  excellent  temper,  and  made  no  refer- 
ence to  his  displeasure  of  the  previous  evening.  On  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  123 

contrary,  he  had  never  treated  his  brother  more  as  a  friend 
and  companion  ;  they  spoke  of  Penshurst  and  of  Sidney, 
and  although  Hugo  said  little  or  nothing  of  Sidney's 

n1  Vtical  views,  Kandolph  could  perceive  that  his  purpose 
been  carried  out,  the  youth  evidently  knew  much  that 
might  prove  of  great  value.  This  consciousness  pleased 
him  so  well  that  he  felt  more  kindly  disposed  to  his  ward 
than  he  had  done  for  some  time,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
reached  Bishop-Stortford,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  Hugo 
had  quite  forgotten  the  vague  dread  of  the  previous  night, 
and  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness.  Very  strange 
was  the  subtle  fascination  which  attracted  him  to  that 
strong,  perverse  nature.  The  mixture  of  harsh  exaction 
and  real  fondness  on  the  part  of  the  elder  brother  had 
bound  Hugo's  loyal  heart  to  his  with  bonds  that  nothing 
could  dissever. 

Sleeping  that  night  at  Bishop-Stortford,  they  rode  on  to 
Longbridge  Hall  the  following  day,  arriving  just  in  time 
for  the  early  dinner.  Sir  Peregrine  had  quite  recovered 
from  his  wound,  and  treated  Hugo  with  a  sort  of  laughing 
deference,  perpetually  referring  to  the  duel  in  a  way  which 
put  him  to  the  blush. 

Nothing,  however,  was  said  of  the  cause  of  the  strife, 
fair  Mistress  Joyce,  nor,  indeed,  did  any  one  refer  to  Mon- 
disfield  Hall.  Once,  when  young  Peregrine  Blake,  the 
eldest  son,  had  ridden  over  with  Hugo  and  several  of  the 
guests  to  St.  Edmonsbury,  on  a  Wednesday,  Hugo  for  a 
moment  fancied  that  he  saw  Joyce  among  the  gay  throng  ; 
it  was  market-day,  and  every  street  was  crowded  with 
country  folks.  But  the  face  only  flashed  upon  him  for  a 
moment,  and  when  he  turned  to  look  once  more  he  could 
discern  nothing  but  the  back  of  a  brown  hood,  and  the 
broad  linen  collar,  puffed  sleeves,  and  straight  skirts  of  a 
gown,  which  had  in  them  nothing  individual.  He  thought 
it  was  indeed  Joyce,  but  he  could  not  feel  sure. 

After  that  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  was  for  the  time 
being  driven  from  his  thoughts  by  the  perpetual  round  of 
gayety  and  amusement  kept  up  at  Longbridge  Hall,  in 
honor  of  the  birth  day  of  the  son  and  heir.  Long  days  of 
hawking  and  fishing,  bowls,  basset,  dancing,  and  theatri- 
cals almost  banished  from  his  mind  the  sweet  little  puritan 
maid.  Spite  of  his  forebodings,  he  greatly  enjoyed  the  ten 
day's  recreation,  and  the  jovial  atmosphere  of  the  county- 
house  in  time  of  festival  was  new  to  him. 

Randolph  continued  to  treat  him  with  all  brotherliness, 


124  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  allowed  him  to  see  that  the  general  homage  which  he 
received  from  the  Suffolk  household  on  account  of  his  fine 
voice  and  handsome  face  was  pleasing  to  his  fraternal 
pride.  What  wonder  if  he  did  not  in  all  things  rise  above 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed !  What  won- 
der that  peril,  following  on  the  pleasure,  found  him  unpre- 
pared ! 

One  day,  when  their  stay  was  supposed  to  be  drawing  to 
a  close,  the  whole  family  were  sitting  at  dinner  in  the  great 
hall,  when,  after  the  meat  had  been  removed  and  the 
chaplain  had,  in  accordance  with  custom,  quitted  the  table, 
Hugo  was  startled  by  receiving  from  his  brother  a  signal 
to  rise  too.  He  had  always  felt  sorry  for  the  meek  little 
clergyman,  who  retired  from  the  table  when  the  pastry  and 
sweetmeats  were  served,  only  returning  at  the  end  to  say 
grace  for  the  family.  It  had  always  reminded  him  of  a 
negro  proverb  which  he  had  once  heard  from  the  lips  of 
one  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's  black  servants — "  Them 
what  eats  kin  say  grace."  It  had  amused  him  infinitely  to 
see  day  by  day  the  poor  little  chaplain  decorously  giving 
thanks  for  what  he  had  not  received.  But  what  could  this 
signal  mean  ?  and  what  was  Randolph  saying  to  Lady 
Blake  ? — something  about  the  wager  he  had  mentioned  to 
her,  mingled  with  compliments  and  apologies. 

"And  good  luck  to  you!"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  who 
already  was  far  from  sober;  "good  luck  to  you  I  We  will 
drink  to  ^our  success." 

Success !  Good  luck !  A  wager !  What  in  the  world 
did  it  all  mean  ?  Bewildered,  Hugo  followed  his  brother 
out  of  the  hall,  and  upstairs  to  their  chamber,  Randolph  at 
present  vouchsafing  no  explanation  whatever.  Upon  the 
bed  lay  two  suits  of  fantastic-looking  clothes,  much  the 
worse  for  wear,  and  reminding  Hugo  of  the  suits  worn  by 
the  strolling  musicians  who  had  played  a  night  or  two 
since  at  the  ball. 

"Lose  no  time,"  said  Kandolph,  concisely.  "Put  on 
those  " — he  motioned  to  the  clothes. 

Hugo  obeyed  like  one  in  a  dream.  He  knew  by  Ran- 
dolph's tone  that  a  question  would  but  call  forth  just  such 
a  volley  of  oaths  as  his  question  in  the  Temple  Gardens 
had  done.  He  dressed  obediently,  though  not  without 
some  uneasy  wonder  as  to  the  real  purpose  of  this  extraor- 
dinary disguise.  Dressing  up  and  all  manner  of  theatricals 
had,  however,  been  so  much  the  order  of  the  day  of  late 
that  there  was  something  familiar  about  it  after  all,  and  he 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS,  125 

could  not  help  a  little  amusement  when,  on  looking  round, 
he  discovered  his  grave  elder  brother  transformed  into  a 
very  foreign  looking  fellow,  and  so  altered  by  the  change 
of  wig  and  dress  that  he  looked  a  typical  strolling  musician. 
Apparently  Eandolph  was  not  quite  so  well  pleased  with 
his  survey  of  his  ward,  for  he  motioned  him  to  a  chair  and 
drew  forth  his  large  tortoise-shell  comb.  . 

"  Your  hair  will  never  do  like  that,"  he  said.  "  Now 
listen  to  me  for  a  while,  and  bestow  on  what  I  say  your 
careful  attention,  for  it  is  of  no  slight  importance." 

Hugo,  however,  instead  of  listening,  gave  a  sadden  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  and  dismay,  for  as  Eandolph  spoke, 
in  quiet,  measured  tones,  he  felt  some  instrument  close  to 
his  neck,  the  edge  of  which  was  thinner  and  colder  than 
the  comb,  and  the  next  moment  at  one  fell  swoop  his  long, 
glossy  mane  was  severed  from  his  head. 

"  Good  heavens !  brother,"  he  exclaimed,  "  this  passeth 
a  joke.  Methinks  our  mumming  is  like  to  prove  costly." 

In  his  tone  there  was  some  natural  indignation,  and  Ean- 
dolph,  autocratic  as  he  was,  thought  it  well  to  make  all 
due  apologies. 

"  Vex  not  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  would  not  have  done 
such  a  thing  an  it  had  not  been  necessary.  And  see  here, 
I  give  you  on  the  instant  the  full  money's  worth  of  those 
locks  of  which  you  have  been  shorn.  Take  these  fifty 
guineas,  and  Eupert  Denham  shall  take  you  to  the  crack 
wig  maker  in  London  the  instant  we  return." 

Hugo  passively  allowed  the  gold  to  be  placed  in  his 
hand,  but  he  was  evidently  much  more  annoyed  than  he 
had  ever  appeared  to  be  before,  and  the  elder  brother 
somehow  perceived  that  the  days  of  his  absolute  tyianny 
over  his  ward  were  likely  to  draw  rapidly  to  an  end. 

"  You  deserve  some  explanation  of  this  summary  act," 
he  began,  diplomatically.  "  And  yet,  Hugo,  I  must  ask 
you  in  the  main  to  trust  me.  This  much,  however,  I  may 
tell  you.  I  have  accepted  an  enormous  wager  successfully 
to  carry  out  a  day's  work  in  the  disguise  of  a  strolling 
musician.  Without  you  I  cannot  do  it ;  and  believe  me, 
you  shall  not  be  the  loser  if  I  can  manage  all  that  I  wish." 

"But—"  began  Hugo,  doubtfully. 

"No  buts,"  said  Eandolph,  peremptorily.  "The  buts 
are  for  me  to  think  of,  not  for  you  to  suggest." 

"  I  hate  your  plans  and  your  mysteries  I"  broke  in  Hugo, 
passionately,  as  all  the  vague  dread  and  the  dim  suspicion 
returned  to  him  again  with  double  force. 


126  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"  Hate  them,  or  like  them,  'tis  all  one  to  me,"  said  Ran- 
dolph, coldly.  "  I  have  need  of  your  services,  and  I  com- 
mand them.  No  more  of  this  ;  we  lose  time.  Follow  me  ; 
and  not  another  word  !" 

Chafing  under  an  intolerable  sense  of  injustice,  and  a 
consciousness  that  the  toils  were  closing  upon  him  which 
he  was  powerless  to  break,  Hugo  followed  his  brother 
down  a  back  staircase,  typical  enough  to  his  mind  of  the 
whole  proceeding.  All  had  apparently  been  well  arranged. 
They  left  Longbridge  Hall  without  encountering  a  soul, 
and  close  to  the  entrance-gate  found  their  horses  waiting  for 
them,  ready  saddled,  and  tied  to  a  tree.  In  dead  silence  they 
mounted  and  rode  away,  a  curious-looking  pair — Randolph 
apparently  in  high  spirits,  Hugo  vaguely  miserable.  With 
his  short,  curly  hair,  his  suit  of  travel-stained  blue  cloth, 
decked  here  and  there  with  faded  ribbons,  and  a  pair  of 
down-trodden  boots,  of  which  he  was  keenly  ashamed,  it 
was  impossible  to  conceive  anything  more  unlike  the  young 
gentleman  of  the  period.  His  very  reluctance  and  his  air 
of  uneasiness  made  the  disguise  yet  more  effectual,  and  he 
looked  so  precisely  the  home-sick  German  whom  Randolph 
desired  him  to  portray  that  the  elder  brother  could  scarcely 
suppress  a  chuckle  of  amused  satisfaction  whenever  he 
glanced  at  him. 

"  You  shall  not  be  forced  to  tell  lies  in  my  behoof,"  he 
said  at  length,  with  a  touch  of  merriment  in  his  voice  which 
grated  on  Hugo.  "  A  veritable  musician  from  St.  Edmonds- 
bury  will  meet  us  anon,  and  you  and  I  will  turn  then  into 
two  German  minstrels,  and  borrow  the  '  ja '  and  '  nein  '  of 
our  forebears." 

Hugo  thought  of  his  ancestor,  the  brave  Count  Hugo, 
and  involuntarily  he  shuddered. 

"  Come,"  said  Randolph,  "  take  it  not  so  soberly.  Most 
lads  would  enter  into  the  fun  with  some  show  of  spirit. 
Denham  would  enjoy  the  mumming,  and  be  the  life  of  our 
party.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Hugo !  Trust  me,  this  shall  all 
turn  to  your  advantage." 

Perhaps  the  tone  of  this  last  speech  did  to  some  extent 
allay  Hugo's  fears.  He  brightened  up  a  little,  and  began 
to  practice  fragments  of  German  talk,  and  to  consider  what 
German  songs  he  could  sing.  A  few  years  before  they  had 
visited  their  German  kinsfolk,  who  still  lived  in  Count 
Hugo's  old  castle,  and  both  he  and  his  brother  knew  the 
language  well. 

Before  long  they  came  in  sight  of  a  small  wayside  inn/ 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  127 

and  here  Eandolpli  reined  in  his  steed,  and  dismounted, 
bidding  Hugo  follow  his  example.  A  hostler  appearing, 
Bandolph  gave  orders  that  the  horses  should  be  put  up, 
and  Hugo,  wondering  much  what  was  about  to  happen,  en- 
tered the  inn  reluctantly  enough.  Two  men  came  to  meet 
them  in  the  nagged  passage,  the  landlord,  who  proved  to 
be  one  of  Sir  Peregrine  Blake's  old  retainers,  and  the 
musician  from  St.  Edmondsbury,  a  round-faced,  jovial 
looking  man,  by  name  Peter  Pierson,  wearing  a  dress  al- 
most exactly  similar  to  that  donned  by  the  two  brothers. 
Randolph  had  told  him  about  the  great  wager  for  which  he 
•was  undertaking  this  masquerade,  and  the  little  man  quite 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  had,  of  course, 
sworn  the  strictest  secrecy.  He  had  brought  with  him  his 
fiddle,  and  a  viol  da  gamba  for  Randolph.  Hugo  had,  at 
Randolph's  request,  brought  his  own  lute.  Having  slung 
their  instruments  across  their  shoulders,  and  tasted  the 
landlord's  home-brewed  ale,  they  set  off  on  their  expedition, 
forsaking  the  high-road,  and  following  Peter  Pierson  across 
country. 

Whither  ?  That  was  the  question  which  filled  Hugo's 
mind.  A  terror  had  taken  possession  of  him  that  Mondis- 
field  might  in  some  way  be  connected  with  this  strange  un- 
dertaking. And  yet  how  should  strolling  musicians  have 
aught  to  do  with  that  sober  Puritan  household  ?  It  was 
scarcely  possible,  and  yet  the  haunting  dread  would  recur 
to  him,  and  he  found  himself  continually  remembering 
that  hurried  walk  to  the  Hall  on  the  night  of  the  5th  of 
October.  In  vain  he  tried,  however,  to  distinguish  any 
feature  of  the  landscape  which  would  prove  to  him  that 
they  were  in  the  same  neighborhood.  It  was  just  the  same 
slightly  undulating  country  that  stretched  on  and  on  for 
miles  throughout  Suffolk,  nor  could  he  anywhere  see  the 
gray  tower  of  Mondisfield  Church,  or  the  four  cross-roads, 
or  the  brook.  He  plodded  on  heavily  in  his  uncomfortable 
boots,  following  his  brother  and  Peter,  and  ever  with  a 
growing  distaste  to  the  work  which  lay  before  him.  At 
length  Randolph  turned  back  to  him. 

"Carry  this  veil  for  me,"  he  said  ;  "'tis  mighty  heavy,'  * 

Hugo  quietly  accepted  the  additional  burden,  but  im- 
patience and  vexation  as  to  the  expedition  itself  unloosed 
his  tongue. 

"^ Where  are  we  going?"  lie  said,  shortly,  and  in  a  tone 
which  demanded  an  answer. 

"  Only  to  a  house  whither  honest  Peter  is  in  the  habit  of 


128  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

going  every  year,"  said  Randolph,  cheerfully.  "  Another 
coining-of-age  party,  and  a  feast  for  the  tenantry.  Odds- 
fish  !  boy,  keep  up  your  heart,  'tis  no  great  thing  I  have 
asked  of  you." 

"  What  if  our  disguise  be  discovered  ?  "  asked  Hugo. 
"  An  impossibility,"  replied  Eandolph.  "  And  i'  faith 
there  is  no  disgrace  in  a  little  masquerade.  Why,  it  was 
but  lately  that  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland  attired  herself  as 
an  orange-woman  and  came  down  to  the  Temple.  And  you 
yourself  know  that  the  queen  even  dressed  up  as  a  peasant 
woman  and  went  to  a  fair." 

"  Yes,  and  was  speedily  discovered,"  said  Hugo. 

Randolph's  tone  suddenly  changed. 

"  If  you  lead  to  our  discovery  I'll  thrash  you  within  a& 
inch  of  your  life !  "  he  said,  through  his  teeth.  Then,  re- 
covering himself,  he  added,  "But  all  will  go  well.  Do 
merely  as  I  tell  you  ;  speak  only  in  German,  and  discovery 
is  impossible." 

With  that  he  left  him  and  rejoined  Peter,  while  Hugo, 
relieved  of  his  fears  about  Mondisfield,  followed  wearily 
across  fields  and  through  woods,  until  they  emerged  into 
into  a  park  where  deer  were  grazing  under  the  oak  trees. 
Ah !  there  at  last  was  the  house  ;  an  avenue  of  oaks  in  front, 
a  moat  with  a  slight  wooden  bridge  crossing  it,  a  long,  ram- 
bling, irregular  Suffolk  hall,  and  surely  not  Mondisfield. 
For  had  not  Mondisfield  an  avenue  of  elm-trees  in  front  of 
it  ?  And  was  not  the  moat  much  further  from  the  house, 
and  spanned  by  an  ancient  draw-bridge  leading  to  the  bowl- 
ing green  ? 

Hugo  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  followed  the  others 
across  the  bridge  and  up  the  well-kept  garden  path  to  the 
door,  where  Peter  knocked  loudly,  and  Randolph  resumed 
his  viol. 

A  maid  opened  to  them. 

"  Ah,  the  musicians  from  St.  Edmondsbury !"  she  ex- 
claimed, looking  well  pleased.  "  Glad  to  see  you  again, 
Master  Peter;  here's  a  fine  doings  to-day  with  us." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Peter,  entering  and  signing  to  the  other 
two  to  follow  him.  "  In  our  old  quarters,  my  lass  ?" 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  looking  curiously  at  Hugo,  "  ay,  up  in 
the  gallery,  master.  Why,  you've  brought  some  new  com- 
rades." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  with  a  laugh;  "  foreigners  fresh  from 
Germany,  and  I'll  warrant  you  they'll  play  you  some  merry 
tunes  anon." 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  129 

"Lord !"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Did  they  come  from  for- 
eign parts?  Take  some  ale,  master,  before  you  go  up," 
she  said,  turning  to  Hugo,  evidently  much  struck  with  his 
boyish  good  looks. 

He  crimsoned,  and  uttered  two  or  three  words  in  Ger- 
man which  entranced  her. 

"  Lord,  how  strange  he  do  talk !"  she  cried,  laughing. 

"He  saith  he  can  not  speak  your  tongue,  mistress,"  said 
Peter,  with  a  grin.  "No,  never  mind  the  ale;  we  are  late, 
and  will  go  up  straight  and  give  them  a  tune." 

The  maid  opened  a  door,  which  Hugo  thought  belonged 
to  a  cupboard,  but  it  proved  to  be  the  entrance  to  a  very 
narrow,  steep  staircase,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a  small 
room,  and  beyond  this  again  the  old  minstrels'  gallery. 

Had  he  not  been  so  desperately  uncomfortable  and 
ashamed  of  this  masquerade,  Hugo  wrould  have  been  pleased 
by  the  picturesqueuess  of  the  scene  which  greeted  him 
when,  following  his  elders,  he  emerged  from  the  little  room 
into  the  broad  gallery,  with  its  polished  floor  and  massive 
wooden  balusters.  Down  below  in  the  big  hall  were  ranged 
long  tables,  laden  with  good  cheer,  and  the  tenantry  were 
doing  ample  justice  to  the  annual  feast,  and  looked  charm- 
ingly comfortable  and  happy.  As  it  was,  however,  be  shrunk 
as  far  a=5  possible  into  the  background,  and  hardly  looked 
at  any  thing,  bestowing  all  his  attention  on  the  tuning  of 
his  lute.  Then  Peter  handed  round  the  well-worn  sheets 
of  paper  containing  the  various  parts,  and  Hugo  found 
that  his  music  was  so  badly  copied  that  it  required  all  his 
attention.  It  was  not  until  a  song  was  demanded  that  he 
really  looked  down  at  the  audience.  But  when,  at  a  signal 
from  Randolph,  he  stood  up  to  sing  a  German  Volkslied,  he 
could  not  avoid  seeing  his  audience.  As  he  sung  his  eyes 
wandered  from  one  to  another  in  the  crowd  below  ;  he  had 
never  sung  before  to  such  a  rustic  assembly,  and  the  open- 
mouthed  astonishment,  and  the  grins  of  delight  at  the 
novel  German  song,  could  not  fail  to  amuse  him.  It  was 
not  till  the  last  verse  that  he  looked  quite  to  the  further 
end  of  the  long  hall,  where,  in  the  doorway  leading  to 
some  other  room,  there  stood  a  group  of  girls  listening. 
These,  no  doubt,  were  the  daughters  of  the  house,  and  in- 
stinctively his  eyes  traveled  rapidly  from  one  to  another, 
till  with  a  shock  that  for  the  time  being  almost  paralyzed 
him,  they  rested  on  Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

There  she  stood,  hand  in  hand  with  Evelyn,  her  little 
iigure  drawn  up  to  its  full  height — for  was  not  this  the  fes- 


130  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

tival  day  of  the  whole  year,  and  did  not  the  new  blue 
gown  demand  a  stately  deportment  ?  Her  short  waves  of 
sunny  brown  hair,  her  wide-opened  blue  eyes,  her  piquant 
little  mouth,  looked  just  as  they  had  looked  on  that  au- 
tumn Sunday  when  Hugo  had  last  parted  with  her.  Good 
heavens!  for  what  purpose  had  Randolph  brought  him  to 
this  house — this  house,  which  after,  all,  must  be  Mondis- 
field,  approach ed,  perhaps,  from  the  buck  instead  of  the 
front!  A  deadly  faint  ness  stole  over  him,  an  oppression 
from  which  no  effort  could  free  him  ;  his  voice  wavered, 
his  lips  refused  to  form  tlie  words  of  the  song,  wreaths  of 
white  mist  seemed  to  float  suddenly  across  the  hall,  and  he 
broke  down. 

Presently,  above  the  confused  babel  of  voices  in  the  hall 
below,  above  Peter's  fiddling,  above  Randolph's  muttered 
remonstrances,  Hugo  became  aware  of  steps  ascending  the 
little  staircase.  Peter  stopped  his  tune  and  turned  round 
to  greet  an  elderly  nurse  who  stepped  into  the  gallery 
bearing  a  tankard  of  hot  spiced  ale,  and  followed  rather 
shyly  by  Joyce  and  Evelyn. 

"  So,  Master  Peter,"  she  began,  "  has  he  fainted,  your 
young  foreigner  ?  My  mistress  bade  me  carry  him  this 
ale.  Poor  lad,  you've  overtired  him  with  the  long  walk." 

Hugo  accepted  the  tankard,  glad  of  anything  in  which 
he  could  for  a  moment  hide  his  face,  and  conceal  the  agony 
of  shame  and  fear  arid  perplexity  which  swept  over  him. 

If  only  those  blue  eyes  would  not  look  at  him  with  such 
compassion  he  could  have  borne  it  better. 

"  How  tired  he  looks  !"  said  Joyce.  "  And  oh,  see,  Eve- 
lyn, how  fine  a  lute  he  has  !  no  wonder  it  sounded  so  sweet- 
ly. Shall  I  ask  him  to  let  us  look  at  it  ?" 

She  drew  nearer. 

"  I  hope  you  are  better,"  she  said,  kindly,  speaking  quite 
as  courteously  to  him  in  his  character  of  poor  musician  as 
she  had  done  six  months  before,  when,  in  very  different  at- 
tire, he  had  lain  back  on  the  grass  while  she  bandaged  his 
wound. 

He  made  the  briefest  of  replies  in  German,  and  she 
turned  to  Peter. 

"  Does  he  only  speak  his  own  tongue  ?"  she  said.  "  Ah, 
then,  good  Master  Peter,  make  him  understand,  please,  how 
sorry  all  the  people  are,  and  that  we  hope  he  will  rest  and 
perchance  be  able  to  sing  to  us  later  on." 

"  He  can  but  speak  his  own  tongue,  lady,"  said  Peter, 
pulling  his  forelock,  "but  he  can  understand  what  is  said 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  131 

to  him.  How  now,  Karl,  look  up,  my  man,  the  young  lady 
would  fain  hear  you  sing  again.  Thou'lt  soon  be  fit, 
eh?" 

An  insane  longing  to  throw  aside  all  disguise,  to  pro- 
claim himself  .Joyce's  kinsman,  nearly  overmastered  Hugo, 
and  Randolph  read  his  thoughts.  He  turned  to  him  with 
a  look  so  iierce  that  Joyce  involuntarily  stepped  back  a 
pace,  and  with  angry  gestures  and  a  torrent  of  German,  of 
which  she  could  not  understand  a  word,  he  thrust  the  lute 
back  into  his  brother's  hand  and  bade  him  at  once  resume 
his  duties. 

"He  shall  sing  anon,"  he  said,  with  a  very  foreign  accent, 
turning  to  Joyce.  But  the  smile  on  Lis  face  contrasted  BO 
unpleasantly  with  the  look  she  had  just  before  seen  on  it 
that  she  shrunk  away  from  him,  and  was  not  sorry  to  quit 
the  gallery  altogether,  so  violent  was  the  antipathy  which 
she  all  at  once  conceived  for  him. 

The  thought  of  the  tired  lutist  a  little  interfered  with  her 
pleasure,  and  even  when  the  country-dances  began,  and 
delightful  music,  delightful  motion,  delightful  excitement 
and  novelty,  kept  her  radiantly  happy,  she  would  every  now 
and  then  give  a  glance  toward  the  gallery ,  and  wonder  how 
poor,  tired  Karl  and  his  cross  father  were  feeling.  It  was 
a  puzzling  world  where  some  must  fiddle  for  others  to  dance 
to,  however  weary  or  ill. 

After  a  time,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing, 
came  some  more  songs,  and  Joyce,  standing  by  her  father, 
watched  the  singer  intently.  He  sung  well,  yet  not  as  he 
had  sung  at  first  ;  there  was  now  an  amount  of  effort  in 
his  singing  which  to  Joyce  quite  spoiled  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  him.  He  sung  coldly,  resolutely,  as  if  he  had  made 
u  I )  hi»  mind  to  go  through  with  it,  however  much  it  cost  ; 
and  he  stood  rigidly  still,  seeming  to  notice  nothing. 

"  He  has  a  fine  face,"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "  How 
strange  it  seems  to  see  once  more  the  fashions  of  my  youth ! 
Short  hair  is  to  my  mind  more  manly  than  these  long  locks 
and  portentous  wigs.  The  German  youth  sets  us  a  good 
example." 

After  that  came  more  dancing,  and  the  musicians  in  the 
gallery  were  kept  hard  at  work  until  the  time  came  for  the 
finale  of  the  evening,  the  speech  by  Colonel  Wharncliffe, 
and  the  drinking  of  healths.  The  evening  had  now  closed 
in,  the  red  curtains  had  been  drawn  across  the  two  huge 
windows,  lamps  and  candles  had  been  lighted  in  the  old 
hall,  and  the  tenants  stood  in  groups,  listening  to  the  few 


132  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

words  which  the  colonel  never  failed  to  say  to  them  each 
year. 

But  for  once  in  her  life  Joyce  did  not  listen.  For,  look- 
ing up  to  the  gallery  where  candles  were  also  burning,  she 
could  plainly  see  the  German  lutist  through  the  wooden 
balusters,  and  there  was  something  in  his  face  which  di- 
verted her  attention  from  her  father's  speech.  She  had  a 
strong  impression  that  she  had  seen  him  before,  and  kept 
puzzling  her  brain  to  remember  where  it  could  have  been. 
He  sat  now  a  little  apart  from  his  companions,  rigidly  still, 
and  with  a  sort  of  blank  hopelessness  in  his  face  which 
startled  her.  He  never  moved,  he  never  even  looked  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left.  What  story  belonged  to  that  face, 
she  wondered.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his  own  coun- 
try and  wishing  himself  there;  perhaps  he  was  planning  an 
escape  from  that  cross  father.  And  even  in  all  the  bustle 
and  confusion  of  departure,  when  the  tenants  were  putting 
on  their  hats  and  cloaks,  Joyce  still  was  able  to  observe 
the  last  of  the  two  Germans.  Honest  old  Peter  had  has- 
tened away  to  see  if  supper  was  being  brought  for  them, 
and  the  elder  man  stood  with  one  hand  on  his  viol  and  the 
other  on  the  lutist's  shoulder,  as  though  he  held  him 
against  his  will  that  he  might  the  better  talk  with  him. 
The  light  shone  full  on  the  face  of  the  younger,  and  even 
at  that  distance  Joyce  could  see  how  miserable  he  looked. 
It  was  the  misery  of  one  who  struggles,  but,  lacking  confi- 
dence, struggles  without  hope. 

"  To  bed,  my  little  Joyce,  to  bed,"  said  her  father,  "  or 
you  will  be  over  weary." 

And  Joyce  was  fain  to  obey,  though  she  longed  to  know 
how  that  talk  between  the  musicians  would  end.  Turning 
for  a  last  look  at  them  as  she  quitted  the  hall,  she  saw  that 
they  still  kept  the  same  position,  but,  rather  to  her  dismay, 
she  found  that  the  younger  one  was  aware  she  had  been 
watching  them,  for  his  eyes  rested  upon  her  now,  and  the 
sadness  and  despair  in  them*  seemed  to  strike  to  her  very 
heart.  She  ran  swiftly  upstairs,  half  blinded  by  tears, 
which,  though  she  could  not  have  explained  them,  somehow 
made  her  feel  ashamed. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  133 

CHAPTEE  Xm. 

A  FALL. 

Judge  not  thy  friend  until  tkou  standest  in  his  place. 

BABBI  HILLKL. 

IT  was  night.  The  tenants  had  long  since  departed. 
The  tired  servants  were  all  asleep.  The  whole  family  had  re- 
tired, and  every  light  in  the  house,  save  one  was  out.  That 
one  light  burned  in  a  dark  lantern  belonging  to  Eandolph, 
and  it  stood  on  the  floor  of  the  little  room  which  led  to 
the  musicians'  gallery.  From  time  immemorial  old  Peter 
and  his  companions  from  St.  Edmondsbury  had  supped 
and  slept  in  this  room  on  the  night  of  the  12th  of  May. 
Colonel  Wharncliffie  would  not  hear  of  allowing  them  to 
tramp  all  the  way  back  to  St.  Edmondsbury*  and  this  small 
room,  which  was  never  used  by  any  one  else,  served  as  a 
shelter  for  the  musicians.  Its  accommodation  was  cer- 
tainly the  reverse  of  luxurious  ;  it  contained  nothing 
but  a  rough  table  and  a  few  benches,  .and  old  Peter, 
very  drowsy  after  the  deep  potations  in  which  Ean- 
dolph  had  encouraged  him,  was  sleeping  soundly  on 
the  bare  floor,  rolled  up  in  his  blue  cloth  cloak,  and 
with  a  fiddle-case  by  way  of  pillow.  At  the  table, 
with  both  arms  stretched  across  it,  and  his  face  hidden, 
pat  Hugo.  It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  moved.  Ran- 
dolph half  thought  he  must  be  asleep;  he  sat  watching 
him  with  an  expression  of  mingled  anxiety  and  contempt, 
and  waited  impatiently  until  he  heard  the  clock  in  the  hall 
strike  twelve.  At  the  sound  a  slight  movement  was  ap- 
parent in  Hugo's  shoulders,  and  at  length  he  raised  a  face 
in  which  there  were  no  traces  of  sleepiness,  nothing  but  a 
look  at  once  apprehensive  and  reluctant.  He  had  promised 
to  follow  Eandolph,  but  to  what,  or  5or  what  purpose,  he 
had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

"Take  off  your  boots/'  said  the  elder  brother. 

He  obeyed,  and  followed  Eandolph  through  the  door 
which  led  to  the  little  staircase,  a  most  steep  and  precipi- 
tous descent,  down  which  they  had  to  creep  with  the  ut- 
most caution.  At  length,  twisting  sharply  to  the  ri^ht, 
they  found  themselves  at  the  foot  of  tlie  stair,  and  Ean- 
dolph endeavored  to  open  the  door  which  led  into  the  pas- 
sage beyond.  Cautiously  he  turned  the  handle,  turned  it 
first  one  way,  then  the  other;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Be- 


134  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

yond  a  doubt  the  door  had  been  locked  upon  them.  He 
swore  a  deep  oath  under  his  breath,  and  remounted  the 
stairs.  They  led  on  higher  than  the  gallery.  He  noiselessly 
crept  up,  and  tried  the  upper  door.  That,  too,  was  securely 
locked.  Evidently,  while  showing  his  hospitality  and 
thoughtfulness  for  the  musicians,  Colonel  Wharncliffe  took 
good  care  not  to  trust  them  imprudently.  The  brothers 
stood  motionless  for  a  minute  on  the  staircase.  Upon 
Hugo's  face  there  was  written  unmistakably  an  intense  re- 
lief. Randolph,  catching  sight  of  this  expression,  flushed 
with  a  sudden  anger,  and,  as  if  all  at  once  gaining  a  solu- 
tion for  his  difficulties,  he  cautiously  crept  to  the  gallery. 
Then  he  turned  and  closed  tbe  half  glass  door,  so  that 
Peter  should  not  be  disturbed  by  their  movements. 

What  in  the  world  was  he  going  to  do  ?  He  walked  to 
the  front  of  the  gallery  and  looked  down  over  the  broad 
wooden  rail  at  the  top  of  the  balusters.  As  far  as  he  could 
judge  in  the  dim  light  the  floor  of  the  gallery  was  about 
nine  or  ten  feet  from  the  ground  in  the  hali  below,  the 
wooden  railings  not  more  than  four  feet  high.  The  survey 
seemed  to  satisfy,  him. 

"  You  are  a  fair  athlete,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  turning 
to  Hugo.     "  And,  since  my  climbing  days  are  ended,  I 
must  trust  this  matter  to  you." 
"What  matter?" 

"  An  affair  of  supreme  concern  both  to  ourselves  and  to 
the  country." 

"  I  would  fain  serve  my  country  in  other  ways  than  by 
stealing  at  night  through  other  men's  houses,"  said  Hugo, 
bitterly. 

"Possibly  you  may  live  to  do  so,  but  at  present  your 
duty  is  to  obey  me,"  said  Randolph,  coldly.  "Listen,  for 
the  fewer  words  we  have  the  better.  I  know,  on  certain 
evidence,  that  in  this  house  there  are  hid  treasonable 
papers,  papers  that  might  be  of  infinite  service  if  exposed. 
You  will  probably  find  them  either  in  the  room  immediate- 
ly opposite  us — where  we  saw  the  conspirators  last  year — 
or  you  will  find  them  in  the  chamber  they  call  the  south 
parlor,  for  which  you  must  search.  Examine  all  recepta- 
cles; be  careful  to  overlook  no  secret  drawers,  and  look 
well  to  see  whether  any  of  the  panels  are  so  arranged  as 
to  slide  back." 

During  all  this  time  Hugo  had  listened,  indeed,  but  his 
face  had  given  evidence  of  the  feelings  that  were  strug- 
gling within  him.  What !  was  he  to  do  this — this  shameful 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  135 

thing  in  the  house  of  Joyce's  father?  Bring  ruin  upon 
him  ?  Bring  sorrow  to  her  ?  Never  ! 

"  I  can  not  do  it,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is  being 
tortured. 

A  flat  refusal  such  as  this  from  Hugo  meant  a  great  deal. 
Randolph  saw  at  once  that  he  must  take  strong  measures. 

A  shade  came  over  his  dark  face  ;  he  quietly  drew  out  a 
pistol,  and  cocked  it. 

"  I  am  fond  of  you,"  he  said,  calmly,  perhaps  failing  to 
see  the  irony  of  his  words,  while  he  grasped  his  brother 
firmly  in  one  hand,  and  held  the  pistol  to  his  head  with 
the  other.  "  I  am  fond  of  you,  Hugo,  but  unless  you  swear 
to  me  that  you  will  do  as  I  tell  you — by  Heaven!  Ill  blow 
out  3rour  brains  this  moment." 

"That  would  scarce  serve  your  turn,"  said  Hugo,  quietly. 
"Murderers  can  scarce  inherit  a  fair  estate." 

"Fool!'  cried  Randolph.  "Do  you  think  I  could  not 
make  it  appear  that  you  had  killed  yourself  ?  Ay,  I  would 
willingly  swear  you  did  ;  for,  in  truth,  a  refusal  would  be 
self-murder.  Come,  make  your  choice  and  be  quick.  Save 
the  honor  of  your  family,  save  your  country  from  ruin,  or 
else  go  to  instant  death,  and  be  by  all  men  deemed  a 
suicide." 

Hugo's  breath  came  fast  and  hard  ;  a  frightful  choice  lay 
before  him !  And  he  was  young,  and  life  was  so  sweet ; 
and  to  die  thus  by  Randolph's  own  hand  seemed  intolera- 
ble !  Good  heavens!  what  would  avail  him? 

To  call  to  Peter  for  help  would  never  do  ;  the  whole 
household  would  be  roused  by  a  call  loud  enough  to 
awaken  the  old  musician  after  the  amount  of  home-brewed 
ale  he  had  consumed.  In  despair  he  glanced  round  for 
soma  means  of  escape,  but  escape  there  was  none.  The 
dim  light  from  the  lantern  just  sufficed  to  show  the  greater 
emptiness  of  the  hall  below  ;  the  broad  gallery,  with  its 
quaint  old  pictures  and  its  massive  balustrade,  caged  him 
hopelessly,  and  the  face  of  his  guardian,  hard,  fixed,  grim 
as  fate,  confronted  him  pitilessly. 

There  was  no  help,  no  hope,  nothing  but  death — and 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  man  who  was  nearest  him  in  all 
the  world ! 

Inevitably  the  old  tie,  the  bond  of  loyal  obedience,  held 
him  fast  in  this  extremity.  Only  once  in  his  whole  life  had 
he  disobeyed  Randolph.  Could  he  do  so  now  ? 

Alas  !  contrasted  with  the  misery,  and  the  death,  and  the 
wrath  of  his  guardian,  imagination  all  too  quickly  painted 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

a  possible  alternative.  He  might  obey,  and  search,  and, 
after  all,  there  might  be  no  papers.  If  papers  were  found 
they  might  not,  after  all,  prove  treasonable.  They  might  not 
implicate  Joyce's  father.  The  Government  might  not  think 
them  worthy  of  notice.  A  loop  hole  of  escape  seemed  to 
lie  in  this  direction.  He  wavered,  looked  up  once  again 
into  the  stern  face  above  him,  to  see  if  any  mercy  lay  hid 
there.  But  he  knew  only  too  well  that  what  Randolph  saic, 
that  he  meant — knew  that,  his  mind  once  set  on  any  object, 
he  would  pursue  it,  cost  what  it  might. 

"  The  time  waxes  short,"  said  Randolph,  sharply. 
"  Speak  quickly  and  make  your  choice." 

Vaguely  Hugo  felt  that  if  the  circumstances  had  been 
only  a  little  different  he  could  have  withstood  longer,  could 
even  perhaps  have  chosen,  as  he  knew  he  ought  to  have 
chosen,  the  death  at  the  hands  of  his  brother.  But  the 
horror  of  the  semi-darkness,  the  utter  helplessness,  the 
loneliness,  and  eerieness  of  that  awful  scene  in  the  dead  of 
night,  the  impossibility  of  self-defense,  the  very  quietness 
of  voice  which  was  so  imperatively  necessary,  and  which 
strangled  the  arguments  that  with  free  scope  for  speech 
he  might  have  used,  all  this  paralyzed  him. 

"  I  will" — there  was  a  pause,  a  slight  struggle — "  I  will 
— obey  you."  The  words  were  scarcely  above  his  breath. 
Randolph  required  something  more  definite  than  this. 

"  Swear  that  you  will  search  thoroughly,"  he  said,  not 
lowering  his  pistol.  "  Swear  it  on — "  he  felt  for  his  sword, 
which  had  of  course  been  left  at  Long-bridge  Hall  with  his 
own  clothes,  then  looked  round  for  some  other  sacred  em- 
blem. "  Swear  it  on  this  cross." 

He  pointed  to  a  picture  close  beside  them.  It  was  of  a 
uun,  probably  some  member  of  his  OAMI  family,  painted 
years  ago.  Her  face  was  young  and  fair,  with  sweet,  calm 
eyes,  and  a  mouth  which  looked  as  if  it  had  learned  stern 
eelf-control  in  a  hard  school.  About  the  fac  e  there  was  an 
indescribable  expression  of  peace  and  content.  In  her 
hand  she  held  an  open  breviary,  round  her  neck  there 
hung  a  cross. 

"  S'vf ear  it  on  this  !"  reiterated  Randolph,  dragging  him 
up  to  the  picture. 

And,  ever  with  the  pistol  close  to  his  temple,  Hugo 
hurried  through  the  words  which  he  loathed. 

"I  swear  that  I  will  search  thoroughly,  and  will  bring 
you  all  I  find,  so  help  me  God."  As  his  right  hand  rested 
against  the  painted  cross  he  could  have  sworn  that  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  137 

nun  looked  at  him  with  grief  and  reproach  in  her  eyes. 
He  turned  away,  his  heart  heavy  as  lead  But  Kandolph 
startled  him  by  a  sudden  embrace. 

"  God  bless  you,  lad  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  have  relieved 
me  from  an  awful  task." 

There  was  genuine  relief  in  his  face  ;  he  would  assuredly 
have  blown  his  brother's  brains  out  had  he  disobeyed,  but 
yet  it  would  have  cost  him  much  to  do  it.  For  there  were 
strange  gleams  of  humanity  about  Kandolph,  for  all  his 
brutality  and  his  tyrannical  love  of  power. 

Those  few  words  restored  a  certain  amount  of  animation 
to  Hugo  ;  all  his  anxiety  now  was  to  get  through  his  hate- 
ful task  speedily.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have  thought 
twice  about  climbing  down  such  a  breakneck  place.  Now, 
even  in  the  semi-darkness,  and  with  everthing  against  him, 
he  cared  not  a  rush. 

Before  Randolph  could  offer  another  suggestion  he  was 
over  the  balusters,  the  nexb  moment  his  hands  were  on  a 
level  with  the  gallery  floor,  his  feet  feeling  for  a  small 
foothold  which  might  be  hoped  for  on  the  capital  of  one  of 
the  wooden  pillars  at  the  entrance  from  the  outer  passage. 
Finding  that,  he  cautiously  lowered  first  one  hand,  then 
the  other,  swung  for  one  moment  in  mid  air,  then  let  him- 
self drop,  alighting  with  very  little  noise  on  the  flags. 

Well  pleased  with  his  promptitude,  Randolph  let  down 
the  lantern  by  a  piece  of  cord,  and  from  his  vantage- 
ground  in  the  gallery  watched  the  dark  figure  stealing 
noiselessly  to  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and  disappearing 
into  the  room  where  the  meeting  of  the  5th  of  October 
had  been  held. 

Once  fairly  set  to  work,  Hugo  moved  with  great  swift- 
ness and  precision;  he  was  true  to  his  oath,  moreover,  and 
sought  thoroughly;  opened  the  book-case,  opened  the 
drawers  of  a  cabinet,  turned  over  papers,  and  briefly  ex- 
amined them.  He  found  nothing,  however,  but  cookery 
receipts,  methods  of  clear-starching,  Latin  exercises,  and 
pencil-drawings,  evidently  the  possessions  of  the  daughters 
of  the  house.  In  the  lowest  drawer,  which  opened  with  a 
spriijg,  he  did  indeed  find  a  more  questionable-looking 
collection  of  sheets,  stitched  together,  closely  written,  and 
tisd  with  red  tape,  but  on  opening  them  he  saw  written  in 
a  round,  clear  handwriting — "  Journal  of  Joyce  and  Evelyn 
Wharncliffe  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1682-3.  For  the  ben- 
efit, of  the  descendants  of  the  Randolph  Wharncliffe 's." 

This  statement  so  bewildered  him,  and  he  was  so  horri- 


138  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

fied  at  the  idea  of  touching  Joyce's  private  possessions, 
that  he  hastily  tied  the  papers  up  again.  Was  it  not  here, 
in  this  very  room,  that  £e  had  seen  her  in  ghostly  array  on 
that  memorable  October  night  ?  What  if  she  should  come 
now — come  and  find  him  prowling  about  the  house  like  a 
thief!  Oh,  that  he  were  through  this  despicable  task! 
Quickened  by  the  thought  he  closed  the  drawer  and  rapidly 
surveyed  the  panels  of  the  wall  while  all  the  old  portraits  of 
the  ancestors  glared  at  him,  following  him  everywhere 
with  their  staring  eyes.  At  the  picture  of  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe  and  at  the  picture  of  Joyce  herself  he  actually  dared 
not  look,  but  there  was  one  old  man  near  the  door,  in  the 
dress  of  a  sheriff,  and  an  Elizabethan  ruff,  whose  eyes  he 
could  not  evade;  he  had  a  long,  lean,  ghostly-looking  hand 
pointing  eternally  downward,  and  it  seemed  to  Hugo's  ex- 
cited fancy  that  he  indicated  with  scorn  the  place  for  which 
he  deemed  this  treacherous  guest  fit. 

At  length  the  search  was  complete.  In  this  room  there 
was  nothing  that  would  serve  Randolph's  purpose.  Open- 
ing another  door,  Hugo  found  himself  in  the  with  draw  ing- 
room,  but  here  there  was  no  question  of  finding  papers  ; 
the  room  was  little  used,  and  was  stiffly  set  round  with 
high-backed  chairs  covered  with  beautiful  crewel-work  on 
a  black  ground.  There  was  not  a  single  receptacle,  how- 
ever, which  could  by  any  possibility  have  concealed  valu- 
able papers. 

Once  more  he  emerged  into  the  hall,  searched  a  Japan 
cabinet  which  stood  near  the  hearth,  signed  his  want  of 
success  to  Randolph,  and  went  to  seek  the  south  parlor. 

And  here,  alas  !  success — the  success  he  so  little  desired 
—awaited  him.  Just  as  he  was  leaving  the  rccm  he 
noticed  a  difference  in  some  of  the  panels,  and,  getting 
down  his  lantern,  he  tried  whether  they  would  inove;  to 
his  dismay,  three  of  the  panels  yielded  to  his  touch ;  they 
were  very  heavy  to  raise,  and  ihey  made  much  more  noise 
than  he  desired,  but  a  glimpse  of  books  and  papers  within 
forced  him  to  proceed.  At  length  he  had  raised  them  some 
way  and,  bringing  the  lantern  close  to  the  opening,  he  saw 
a  deep  recess,  in  which  was  stored  on  one  side  some  legal 
documents,  with  which  he  did  not  meddle,  on  the  other  a 
pile  of  manuscripts,  which  upon  examination  proved,  alas! 
to  have  direct  bearing  upon  the  political  condition  of  tLe 
country. 

Here  in  very  truth  was  evidence  against  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe,  for  in  those  times  to  conceive  of  remedies  against  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  139 

Stuart  tyranny  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  and  people 
could  not  air  their  favorite  theories,  or  proclaim  themselves 
republicans  at  their  pleasure.  Hugo  could  tell  by  the 
merest  glance  at  the  contents  of  the  manuscripts  that  Col- 
onel Wharncliffe  would  be  placed  in  the  gravest  peril  by 
their  discovery. 

With  a  stifled  groan  he  drew  the  papers  forth,  closed  the 
panels,  stole  once  more  into  the  hall.  Good  God !  why  had 
he  chosen  life  ?  Why — oh,  why  had  he  not  taken  the  truly 
manly  course,  and  refused  to  have  any  hand  in  this  treach- 
ery, cost  what  it  might  ?  * 

Loathing  himself,  he  tied  the  papers  together  with  the 
cord  which  Randolph  lowered,  and  saw  them  drawn  up  in- 
to the  gallery.  The  cord  came  down  again,  this  time  for 
the  lantern.  He  let  this  be  drawn  up  too.  Then  he  stood 
alone  in  the  dark  hall,  feeling  as  though,  had  he  but  had 
the  means,  he  would  fain  have  hanged  himself. 

There  was  a  strange,  beating  sound  in  the  hall  beside 
him.  How  now !  Had  some  one  heard  him  ?  Should  he 
be  discovered  ?  In  an  agony  of  shame  he  shrunk  back,  but, 
after  all,  it  was  only  the  noise  which  the  clock  made  be- 
fore striking  one.  He  had  spent  just  one  hour,  but  in 
that  brief  space  he  had  committed  a  crime  the  effects  of 
which  would  last  throughout  his  life. 

"  Come  up,"  said  Randolph,  in  a  whisper.  "  Why  lose 
this  time?" 

And  Hugo  did  begin  the  ascent,  but  either  hurried  too 
much  or  cared  too  little  for  his  own  safety  ;  for  suddenly, 
while  with  one  hand  he  grasped  the  lower  part  of  the  gal- 
lery balusters,  his  feet  slid  from  their  insecure  resting-place, 
and  he  fell  with  a  dull  thud  upon  the  white  flag-stones 
below. 

"  You  fool !  "  that  was  the  whisper  which  thrilled  through 
his  ears  the  instant  he  recovered  his  senses. 

It  stung  him  into  prompt  action;  he  stood  up,  but  almost 
swooned  so  frightful  was  the  pain. 

Randolph,  seeing  that  he  was  seriously  hurt,  looked 
round  in  despair  for  any  means  of  helping  him  ;  the  lantern- 
cord  was  far  too  slender,  and  the  gallery  was  bare  of  aught 
else.  He  rushed  into  the  little  room  where  honest  Peter 
slept,  robbed  him  of  his  cloak,  knotted  it  securely  to  his 
own,  and  hung  them  down  through  the  railings.  Then 
came  a  breathless  interval.  Hugo  struggled  gallantly,  but 
every  instant  he  grew  more  ominously  pale.  Randolph 
saw,  with  something  bordering  closely  on  remorse,  that 


140  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

his  face  was  convulsed  with  pain.  Would  the  cloaks  give 
way  beneath  the  strain  ?  Luckily  Hugo  was  but  light,  and 
he  helped  himself  manfully.  It  was  with  an  intensity  of 
relief  that  at  last  Randolph  grasped  the  cold  hands  in  his 
— at  last,  with  infinite  pain,  hauled  him  over  into  the 
gallery. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  where  are  you  hurt  ?"  he  asked, 
apprehensively. 

But  Hugo  was  past  replying.  He  lay  stretched  on  the 
floor  of  the  gallery  as  one  dead,  and  beside  him  lay  the 
fatal  papers, 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

* 

You  can  not  barre  love  onte, 
Father,  mother,  and  you  alle  ; 
For,  marke  mee,  love's  a  crafty  boy, 
And  his  limbes  are  very  smalle  ; 
He's  lighter  than  the  thistledoune, 
He's  fleeter  than  the  dov«, 
His  voice  is  like  the  nightingale  ; 
And  oh  !  beware  of  love. 

From  the  Seven  Starrs  of  Witte,  1647. 

May,  1863. — Evelyn  and  I  have  found  but  little  to  record 
in  our  journal  all  through  the  winter  months.  The  news- 
letters brought  us  word  that  in  London  the  persecution  of 
Dissenters  waxed  severer,  a  special  effort  having  been  made 
against  them  as  the  time  drew  nigh  to  St.  Thomas's-day. 
The  church-wardens  of  most  of  the  parishes  named 
them  to  the  ecclesiastical  courts,  and  procured  their  ex- 
communication. This,  my  father  saith,  was  done  that  they 
might  be  incapacitated  from  voting  at  the  election  of 
common-councilmen  to  the  city  of  London.  Thus  the 
Tory  party  will  procure  such  a  common-council  as  is  fit  for 
their  turn,  and  having  already  the  mayor  and  most  of  the 
Court  of  Aldermen  on  their  side,  they  will  then  be  able  to 
surrender  to  the  king  the  charter  of  the  city  of  London. 

Since  the  6th  of  October,  however,  no  persecution  reach- 
ed us  here  at  Mondisfield.  But,  after  the  sacking  of  the 
barn,  no  more  meetings  were  held  there.  My  father  deem-r 
ed  it  wiser  for  us  to  attend  the  parish  church  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  the  evening  a  few  of  those  who  have  the  cour- 
age to  run  the  risk  gather  together  in  the  hall,  where 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  141 

there  is  a  service  held.  We  girls  had  first  of  all  to  make 
heavy  red  curtains  for  tlie  two  great  windows,  which  till 
now  had  never  had-either  curtain  or  shutter.  Frances 
said  she  felt  while  making  them  like  the  Israelite  women 
who  wove. the  hangings  for  the  Tabernacle.  And  it  is  cer- 
tain that,  without  them,  we  should  never  have  felt  safe  in 
meeting  for  worship  with  over  the  prescribed  number. 
Even  now,  when  the  wind  sighs  on  winter  nights,  or  when 
the  creepers  beat  against  the  pane,  we  start  and  tremble, 
and  forget  the  prayer  or  the  sermon,  listening,  heart  in 
mouth,  to  the  sounds  without,  and  fearing  another  of  those 
terrible  incursions.  This  time  I  fear  me  there  will  be  no 
gallant  knight  to  warn  us  all  in  time  and  make  escape  pos- 
sible. There  is  one  John  Hilton,  who,  they  say,  is  very 
widely  known  as  an  informer  against  conventicles.  March 
proved  a  hot,  dry  month,  but  in  April  we  had  naught  but 
showers,  from  which  even  by  Betty's  birthday  the  roads 
had  not  recovered.  However,  the  day  itself — the  12th  of 
May — was  fine  enough,  and  the  tenants  were  not  to  be  kept 
from  the  yearly  feast  by  a  little  mud.  All  went  merrily, 
and  we  had  a  gayer  time  than  usual,  as  befitted  Betty's 
coming  of  age.  But  to  me  the  chief  interest  lay  in  those 
two  foreign  musicians,  about  whom  I  feel  now  doubly  cer- 
tain there  is  some  strange  story. 

The  morning  after  Betty's  birthday  Evelyn  and  I  were 
roused  by  hearing  nurse  and  Margery  talking  together  in 
the  passage  just  beyond  our  room. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  coil !"  said  Margery,  my  mother's  maid, 
"  the  young  foreigner  lad  hath  broke  three  of  his  ribs." 

"  Broke  his  ribs,"  said  nurse,  "  and  how  did  he  do  that, 
pray  ?  I  suppose  they  got  drinking  and  quarreling  last 
night.  That  is  the  end  of  feasting  and  dancing  and  fid- 
dling, and  pray  God  the  master  will  be  warned  and  have 
no  more  of  such  wordly  doings." 

At  this  Evelyn  made  such  an  uproarious  sign  of  disagree- 
ment that  we  lost  the  next  sentence,  but  by  and  by  we 
heard  Margery  say. 

"  Ay,  ay,  it  was  old  Peter  told  me  about  it,  and  he  saith 
it  was  this  morning  he  broke  'em,  a-going  into  the  gallery 
to  fetch  his  lute,  he  slipped  on  the  polished  floor,  not  being 
used  to  such.  They  have  laid  the  poor  chap  in  the  gallery. 
Peter  saith  he  heard  naught  till  the  one  who  played  the 
viol  shook  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  bid  him  rouse  up  and 
help,  and  then,  going  to  the  gallery,  he  saw  the  poor  lad 
He  there  looking  as  white  as  a  clout." 


142  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DATS. 

We  knew  well  enough  that  this  description  would  carry 
nurse  off,  and  that  we  should  hear  no  more,  for  nurse 
loves  waiting  on  silk  folk,  and  that  one  should  look  "  as 
white  as  a  clout "  gives  him  a  firm  hold  on  her  sympathies. 

Therefore  we  dressed  as  speedily  as  might  be,  and  went 
down-stairs  to  hear  more.  All  the  household  seemed  in 
confusion,  and  every  one  was  either  commiserating  the 
poor  German  lutist,  or  scolding  Tabitha  for  having  put  so 
much  beeswax  on  the  floor.  At  length  my  father  came 
down  and  put  an  end  to  the  talk  by  summoning  us  all  to 
prayers,  which  he  said  must  not  be  foregone,  even  for  this 
unfortunate  accident.  We  gathered  just  as  usual  in  the 
hall  and  my  father  read  and  prayed.  We  wondered  much 
if  the  poor  German  listened  up  in  his  gallery,  but  none  of 
us  liked  to  look  up  there  to  see. 

After  breakfast  my  father  went  up  to  see  what  could  be 
done,  and  a  great  talk  arose  as  to  whether  he  had  best  be 
carried  to  St.  Edmondsbury,  where  there  is  a  chirurgeon,  or 
whether  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  lie  still,  and  let  Lake 
the  blacksmith  see  to  him.  Nurse  said  that  to  move  him 
would  be  dangerous  and  that  Lake  was  skillful  as 
a  bone-setter,  and  would  know  what  was  amiss, 
and  both  Peter  and  the  other  German  counseled  him 
to  lie  where  he  was.  But  Karl — so  they  call  him — • 
almost  put  himself  into  a  fever,  they  say,  protesting  in 
German  that  he  must  be  taken  away,  and  not  left  behind 
alone.  However,  all  was  of  no  avail,  his  father  fell  in  with 
our  father's  offer  of  hospitality,  and  Karl  is  to  stay  in  the 
little  room  off  the  gallery,  whither  they  bore  him,  not  with- 
out causing  him  some  pain.  Lake  the  blacksmith  said  it 
would  be  impossible  to  carry  him  down  those  steep  stairs 
without  great  risk,  since  in  the  fall  he  must  have  wounded 
his  lungs,  and  so  may  be  it  is  well  that  he  is  quartered 
here,  only  it  seems  to  make  him  so  very  unhappy.  Father 
says  we  must  do  all  we  can  to  teach  him  English,  that  he 
may  not  feel  so  lonely.  Nurse  says  he  bore  the  pain  of  the 
moving  without  once  flinching,  and  made  no  complaint  of 
Lake's  rough  handling.  But  I  think  he  must  be  well  used 
to  roughness,  for  his  father  seemed  quite  cruel  to  him,  and 
though  none  could  tell  what  they  said  to  each  other  in  that 
strange  tongue,  yet  it  was  easy  to  see  that  even  when  they 
parted  he  was  denying  Karl's  earnest  entreaties,  and  that 
very  churlishly.  All  that  day  we  girls  were  as  busy  as 
could  be,  helping  the  servants,  who  had  much  to  do  in 
cleaning  and  rearranging  the  house  after  the  feast,  and  also 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  143 

in  waiting  on  poor  Karl,  the  lutist.  They  all  seem  glad  to 
do  what  they  can  for  him,  however,  and  no  one  complains 
for  he  asks  for  nothing,  never  murmurs,  thanks  even  the 
little  kitchen  wench  moit  courteously  for  the  least  service 
and  seems  only  anxious  to  give  as  little  trouble  as  may  be. 

But  nurse  says  he  is  sorely  troubled,  and  when  she  is  out 
of  sight  she  hears  him  sigh  to  himself,  and  at  times  groan. 
Then,  coming  back  to  him,  she  asks  him  if  the  pain  has 
grown  worse,  and  he  just  shakes  his  head,  and  turns  his 
face  to  the  wall,  and  makes  as  though  he  would  sleep. 
Poor  nurse  feels  quite  anxious  about  him.  She  saith  it  is 
worse  than  having  a  babe  sick,  for  they,  though  tbey  can 
not  speak,  can  at  least  tell  you  what  is  amiss  by  their  cries, 
but  this  poor  Karl  seems  to  shut  all  things  up  within  him- 
self, and  she  can  in  nowise  understand  him. 

The  little  room  is  so  small  that  there  is  scarcely  room  for 
more  than  his  bed  and  a  table.  So  as  soon  as  might  be 
they  moved  him  by  day  into  the  gallery,  lifting  him  with 
great  care  that  he  might  not  be  shaken.  Then  my  father 
told  us  to  go  and  see  what  we  could  do  for  him,  and  Evelyn 
and  I  bethought  us  of  his  lute,  and  asked  him  to  teach  us, 
which  he  did  right  willingly.  So  strange  he  looked,  with 
his  short,  curly  hair,  and  his  face  all  pale  and  suffering, 
next  to  dear,  rosy  Evelyn,  with  her  laughing  face  and  merry 
ways.  I  thought  they  would  have  made  a  good  subject 
for  a  painter;  Karl  lying  there  on  a  mattress,  propped  up 
with  pillows,  Evelyn  kneeling  beside  him  with  the  lute, 
her  little,  plump,  brown  fingers  showing  so  strangely  be- 
side his  long,  taper,  white  ones,  and  the  afternoon  sun 
shining  in  upon  the  pictures  of  the  gallery  from  one  of  the 
hall  windows,  and  sending  a  wide  beam  of  light  in  betwixt 
the  balusters  of  the  gallery,  with  motes  dancing  endlessly  in 
it.  Watching  them  thus,  and  thinking  how  a  painter 
would  put  them  on  his  canvas,  it  suddenly  came  over  me 
why  I  always  fancied  that  I  must  have  seen  Karl  before. 
From  the  first  there  was  something  familiar  to  me  in  his 
great  broad  forehead  and  dark-gray  eyes.  And  now  I  saw 
that  he  was  extremely  like  the  young  gallant  to  whom  we 
owe  so  much.  He  looks  older  and  paler,  and  has  a  foreign 
air,  but  he  is  like  him — so  much  like  that  were  he  not  a 
wandering  German  minstrel  I  should  deem  that  it  must 
be  he  himself. 

The  next  afternoon  a  strange  thing  happened.  We  were 
sitting  beside  him  and  had  finished  our  lesson  on  the  lute, 
and  Karl,  looking  somewhat  less  miserable  than  usual  was 


144  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

telling  us  the  German  names  for  some  of  the  things  around 
f .  >r  a  chair,  a  table,  and  so  forth,  when  Evelyn  suggested 
he  should  look  all  round  the  hall  and  tell  us  the  names  of 
everything  he  could  see.  We  began  with  the  pictures. 
The  parrot  picture,  close  to  the  gallery,  the  group  of 
meat  and  fruit  and  eatables,  that  hangs  over  the  hearth, 
and  the  man  struggling  in  the  waves,  with  the  burning 
ship  in  the  distance,  and  the  strange  figures  waiting  to  re- 
ceive him  on  the  shore.  Karl  seemed  to  interest  himself 
in  this  picture,  and  we  read  him  the  motto  painted  on  it. 

"  More  than  ye  rocks  amiddys  the  raging  seas, 
Ye  constant  heart  no  danger  dreddys  nor  fearys." 

The  man's  face  is  earnest,  and  full  of  a  strange  power. 
You  can  almost  see  him  struggling  on,  always  grave, 
steadfast,  and  untiring.  At  length  we  came  to  the  picture 
of  the  little  babe,  above  the  door  of  the  north  parlor. 

Karl  taught  us  the  German  for  "  little  child,"  and  then 
we,  to  amuse  him,  told  him  the  tale  of  how  the  picture  was 
saved  from  the  great  fire  of  London,  and  how  it  was  the 
portrait  of  our  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  brother  to  the 
Randolph  Wharncliffe  who  would  one  day  turn  us  out  of 
our  dear  home.  And  we  told  him  of  our  journal  which  we 
were  writing  for  the  "  descendants."  Now  what  happened 
to  Karl  at  that  precise  moment  I  never  could  tell.  Per- 
chance it  was  merely  that  some  movement  hurt  him  sud- 
denly, but  a  most  terrible  look  came  over  his  face,  and  we 
thought  he  would  have  swooned.  Evelyn  would  have 
hurried  away  in  search  of  nurse,  had  he  not  signed  to  her 
to  sit  down  again,  and  presently  he  seemed  to  recover  him- 
self, though  he  continued  very  pale  all  that  afternoon. 
Nor  can  1  forget  the  strange,  doubtful,  troubled  look  he 
gave  me — as  though  he  would  fain  speak,  but  could  not. 
We  must,  indeed,  do  all  in  our  power  to  teach  him  Eng- 
lish, but  he  doth  not  greatly  care  to  learn,  at  least,  so  it 
seems  to  me.  'Tis  passing  strange,  for  in  his  face  is  al- 
ways the  look  of  one  who  longs  to  say  something,  yet  can- 
not. 

My  father  is  much  interested  in  him  and  wishes  he  could 
converse  with  him,  but  that  of  course  is  difficult,  indeed, 
well-nigh  impossible.  Moreover,  Karl  seems  to  shrink 
from  him,  almost  to  fear  him,  which  is  strangp,  seeing  how 
kind  and  gentle  .our  father  is  with  him.  What  he  seems 
to  like  best  is  that  nurse  and  Evelyn  and  I  should  sit  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  145 

the  gallery  in  the  afternoon  and  go  on  with  our  talking 
and  reading  just  as  though  he  were  not  there.  I  am  sure  he 
listens  to  the  reading,  he  lies  so  still,  with  his  face  always 
toward  us,  and  with  a  look  of  content  upon  it,  which 
is  rarely  there  at  other  times.  We  have  read  all  through 
Mr.  Bunyan's  new  book,  "  The  Holy  War,"  and  also,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  I  should  think,  "  The  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress," besides  several  of  Mr.  Shakespeare's  plays,  which 
my  father  thought  would  be  sure  to  interest  him,  if  he 
were  able  to  understand  them  well  enough,  and  this  he 
seems  to  do. 

15th  of  June,  1683. 

No  entries  in  our  journal  all  these  weeks,  but  indeed 
we  have  been  almost  too  busy  to  write,  and  when  there 
have  been  spare  moments  I  scarce  wished  to  set  down 
what  could  hardly  interest  the  "  descendants."  For  in- 
deed Karl  has  taken  up  all  our  thoughts.  My 
mother  says  it  is  very  natural  that  he  should  be  less 
shy  and  uncomfortable  with  nurse  and  with  us 
children  than  with  my  father  or  herself.  She  says  it 
is  because  he  is  of  different  station  that  he  doth  not  feel 
comfortable  in  their  presence,  and  that  he  looks  upon 
me  just  as  a  child,  and  so  does  not  feel  embarrassed  by  the 
difference  in  our  birth.  It  is  true  all  the  world  looks  upon 
me  as  a  child  still,  and  I  am  glad  it  should  be  so,  if  to  be 
counted  as  a  grown  woman  would  make  Karl  afraid  of 
me. 

I  understand  him  less  than  ever,  and  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  he  always  does  listen  to  the  reading  as  I  thought  he 
did.  Three  times  of  late,  when  I  have  looked  up  suddenly 
from  the  book  to  ask  him  some  question,  I  have  found  his 
eyes  fixed  so  strangely  on  my  face,  and  at  one  time,  though 
I  read  the  saddest  part  of  the  tale,  there  were  his  eyes 
shining  with  a  sort  of  happy  look  that  I  never  saw  in  his 
eyes  before.  It  is  true  it  passed  away  very  swiftly,  leaving 
him  as  usual,  grave  and  troubled,  but  what  business  had 
he  to  be  looking  like  that  when  Evelyn  and  nurse  were 
ready  to  weep  over  the  death  of  the  hero?  I  can  not  get 
Karl  out  of  my  thoughts];  he  puzzles  me  greatly.  But  me- 
thinks  it  were  perhaps  wiser  to  write  no  more  of  him,  and 
therefore  I  shall  shut  up  the  journal  in  our  drawer  in  the 
north  parlor  until  he  has  gone,  which  is  like  to  be  soon, 
since  he  is  getting  well. 


146  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

CONFESSION. 

Mistake  no  more  :  I  am  not  Licio, 

Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be  ; 

But  one  that  scorns  to  live  in  this  disguise. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

VERY  strangely  had  that  long  month  passed,  as  far  as 
Hugo  was  concerned.  He  alternated  between  a  despair  at 
the  thought  of  the  certain  misery  which  must  fall  upon  that 
peaceful  household  when  Randolph  had  disclosed  his  secret, 
and  a  feverish  happiness  caused  by  Joyce's  presence.  To 
lie  there  helplessly,  able  to  watch  the  beautiful  family  life 
going  on  around  him,  and  ever  with  the  consciousness  that 
his  own  act  would  soon  shatter  this  happy  home,  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  endure.  And  yet,  painful  as  it  was,  the 
sight  of  that  home-life  fascinated  him.  He  had  never 
known  real  family  life  ;  he  had  no  conception  of  what  a 
pure,  genial  home  might  be.  The  simple  country  customs, 
the  common  interests  so  keenly  shared,  the  home  loyalty, 
the  loving  pride  in  3ach  other's  success,  the  pure  laughter, 
the  innocent  jests,  the  girlish  merriment,  and  the  games 
into  which  no  bitterness  entered,  all  these  were  new  to  him. 
Again,  the  religious  element  underlying  all  struck  him 
greatly.  The  daily  assembling  of  the  household  in  the  hall, 
the  slow,  solemn  reading  of  the  chapter  from  the  Bible,  the 
every-day  language  of  the  prayer  offered  up  by  Colonel 
Wtiarncliffe,  and  afterward  the  repeating  of  a  verse  by  every 
child,  from  Elizabeth,  whose  coming  of  age  festival  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble,  to  little  ten-year-old 
Evelyn. 

Still  more  impressive  were  the  Sunday  evening  services, 
which  he  watched  very  curiously  from  his  gallery. 

He  was  now  almost  well,  and  was  allowed  to  move  about 
a  little.  If  Randolph  did  not,  as  he  had  promised,  either 
come  for  him  or  send  for  him,  he  was  determined  to  leave 
Mondisfield  in  a  few  days'  time,  and  try  to  make  his  way 
back  to  Sir  Peregrine  Blake's. 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  the  17th  of  June.  Hugo  was 
sitting  as  usual  in  his  musician's  gallery,  and  looking  down 
to  the  familiar  hall,  with  its  white-flagged  floor  which  had 
served  him  so  churlishly,  its  carved  oaken  settee,  and  state- 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  147 

ly  high-backed  chairs  set  at  intervals  round  the  wall.  At 
the  table  in  the  middle  sat  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  great  Bible.  Benches  were  set  for 
the  few  outsiders  who  ventured  to  the  service,  and  for  the 
servants,  while,  near  the  hearth,  sat  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  and 
her  daughters,  Joyce  in  her  customary  corner,  close  to  the 
tall  clock.  The  evenings  were  now  so  light  that  to  have 
drawn  the  red  curtains  would  but  have  excited  greater 
notice,  and  the  little  congregation  met  in  some  fear,  keep- 
ing ever  a  sentinel  at  the  window  to  warn  them  of  the  ap- 
proach of  any  danger.  It  seemed  to  Hugo  that  Joyce  was 
the  most  nervous  and  yet  the  most  courageous  of  the  party. 
He  used  to  watch  her  very  narrowly  during  those  services. 
The  alert,  watchful,  anxious  look  on  her  sweet,  childish 
face  touched  him  greatly. 

The  hour  for  the  service  had  struck,  and  there  was  the 
customary  sound  under  his  gallery  of  the  trampling  of 
thick  boots  as  the  country  folk  made  their  way  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  hall.  But  on  this  Sunday,  instead  of  taking 
their  places  as  usual  the  Noncomformists  stood  in  a  group, 
and  Hurst,  tJ  e  gardener,  went  across  to  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  he  said,  quite  loud  enough  for  all 
present  to  hear — "  if  you  please,  sir,  a  special  post  has 
been  through  the  village,  they  say,  and  he  has  brought 
news  of  a  plot  to  kill  the  king,  which  they  do  say  was 
planned  by  the  Whigs,  sir." 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  looked  up  quickly. 

"  To  kill  the  king  ?"  he  said,  incredulously. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  replied  Hurst  ;  "  to  kill  the  king  and  the  duke 
too,  sir." 

"  Who  heard  the  news  at  first  hand  ?"  asked  the  Colonel, 
looking  from  one  to  another  of  the  little  group. 

"I,  sir,"  said  the  village  cobbler,  stepping  forward. 

"  And  I,  sir,"  repeated  another  villager,  younger  and 
more  impulsive-looking. 

"What  was  the  exact  news?"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe ; 
and  Hugo,  from  his  gallery,  tried  hard  to  read  his  grave 
face,  but  could  not. 

"The  post  brought  word,  sir,  that  all  London  was  in 
alarm  at  the  revealin'  of  a  plot  to  kill  the  king,  sir." 

"And  the  Duke  of  York,"  added  the  cobbler. 

"  Ay,  and  the  duke  too.  The  plot  was  revealed  by  two 
brothers,  sir;  at  least,  they  say  the  younger  was  forced  to 
it  by  his  brother  against  his  will." 


148  IN  THE  GOLDEN  BAYS. 

Hugo  gasped,  and  clutched  at  the  railings  for  support. 

"  Did  the  post  mention  any  names?"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Ay,  sir.  Keeling  was  the  name  of  the  two  broth- 
ers ;  and  they  say  the  eldest  was  a  salter  in  the  City,  and 
thought  to  take  a  leaf  out  of  Dr.  Oates's  book." 

At  this  Hugo  breathed  more  freely.  There  had  then 
been  others  reluctantly  forced  into  this  hateful  work  of 
playing  the  spy,  and  he,  at  any  rate,  was  not  responsible 
for  the  general  revelation.  But,  alas,  he  was  responsible 
for  the  danger  that  would  now  more  than  ever  threaten 
Colonel  Wharncliffe. 

"And  when  was  the  plot  to  have  been  carried  out?" 
said  the  Colonel.  "  Said  he  naught  of  that  ?" 

"Ay,  sir,  that  he  did,"  said  both,  in  a  breath.  "The 
king  was  to  have  been  stopped  on  his  way  back  from  New- 
market, sir,  in  a  narrow  part  of  the  highway,  nigh  upon 
Mr.  Rumbold's  house  at  Bye." 

"And  both  were  to  have  been  killed,  sir,"  said  the  cob- 
bler, "both  the  king  and  his  brother;  and  they  do  say  it 
would  have  been  done  in  the  spring  but  for  the  fire  at 
Newmarket,  and  the  king's  going  back  sooner  than  ex- 
pected." 

"  And  some  say  that  it  was  but  put  off  till  next  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day,"  chimed  in  the  younger  man. 

"  Said  he  aught  of  those  arrested  ?  Named  he  any  well- 
known  men  ?" 

"  No  names,  sir;  but  he  spoke  of  arrests  that  were  being 
made,  and  said  tbat  warrants  were  being  issued  whereby  all 
suspected  of  not  favoring  the  king  might  be  had  up." 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  seemed  to  meditate  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  then  looking  up  once  more,  he  thanked  the  men 
for  their  information,  and  said  that  they  would  now  pro- 
ceed with  the  usual  service. 

The  excitement  soon  died  away,  and  a  g;reat  calm  fell 
upon  the  little  assembly  as  Colonel  Wharncliffe  read  of  the 
three  men  who  would  not  bow  down  to  the  great  image 
which  Nebuchadnezzar  the  king  had  set  up,  and  of  how 
walking  through  the  furnace  itself,  they  found  gain 
ins{ead  of  loss.  After  that  he  prayed  long  and  earnestly 
for  all  those  who  might  be  in  danger  through  the  news  of 
this  reported  plot ;  in  his  prayer  was  nothing  agitated  or 
even  anxious — he  was  too  calm  and  too  good  a  man  to  be 
easily  disturbed  by  evil  tidings. 

But  in  the  gallery  a  storm  raged.  No  calm  could  come 
to  Hugo  in  his  present  state.  Never  even  in  all  these  long 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  149 

weeks  of  sliame  and  misery,  had  he  suffered  so  acutely  as 
now.  The  very  sight  of  the  peaceful  assembly  down  be- 
low seemed  to  accentuate  his  wretchedness.  How  little 
they  dreamed  that  this  was  their  last  Sunday  !  How  little 
they  dreamed  that  foes  were  even  now  seeking  the  colo- 
nel's life  !  And  he  had  brought  it  all  upon  them — he,  the 
guest,  the  kinsman,  he  to  whom  all  kindness  and  hospital- 
ity had  been  shown — he  had  betrayed  them. 

Loathing  himself,  he  looked  back  in  a  sort  of  amaze  to 
think  that  his  own  act  could  have  brought  him  into  such 
a  hateful  position.  Could  it  indeed  be  that  he  Lad  ever 
had  the  chance  of  doing  otherwise  ?  It  had  not  seemed  in 
his  power  to  escape  from  that  first  stealthy  visit  to  Mondis- 
field.  Had  it  really  been  in  his  power  ?  Had  he,  through 
lack  of  some  perception,  some  thought,  some  prompt  as- 
sertion of  principle,  taken  the  irrevocable  step  which  must 
lead  to  a  whole  chain  of  results  of  which  he  had  never 
dreamed  ?  And  yet  again  and  again  there  had  been  mo- 
ments when  he  might  have  turned  back.  He  might  have 
disobeyed  Randolph,  and  refused  to  follow  him  from  Long- 
bridge  Hall  on  an  expedition  which  from  the  first  aroused 
his  suspicions.  He  might  have  died  the  death  of  a  martyr 
in  that  very  gallery,  and  purchased  eternal  honor  instead 
of,  as  now,  eternal  shame.  And  now  he  lay  in  this  furnace 
of  pain,  the  fiery  furnace  which  he  had  kindled  for  himself, 
and  he  knew  that  hell  itself  could  contain  nothing  more 
frightful  than  this  looking  back  on  the  past  with  the  full 
consciousness  of  his  failure  and  the  full  consciousness  of 
what  that  fault  of  his  was  bringing  upon  others.  He  was 
in  the  cleansing  fires,  and  those  in  the  hall  below  were  in 
the  heavenly  calm  of  communion  with  the  Unseen,  wrap- 
ping them  around  from  all  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the 
outer  world. 

The  sight  of  them  took  him  back  to  that  Sunday  morning 
— a  lifetime  ago  it  felt  to  him  now — when  he  had  seen  them  in 
the  barn.  The  o)d  minister  had  spoken  words  which  he  had 
never  forgotten,  perhaps  because  at  the  time  he  had  so  little 
understood  them.  "Men  can  rise  above  the  circumstances  in 
which  they  are  placed."  He  had  not  risen ;  he  had  been  drag- 
ged down,  was  even  now  being  dragged  irresistibly  down 
by  Randolph's  strong  will.  But  "  men  can  rise."  That  was 
for  him  in  very  truth  a  gospel.  From  the  perception  of  all 
that  was  involved  in  that  "can  "  he  was  not  long  in  passing 
to  the  "  I  will."  And  above  all  the  grave  Puritan  discourse, 
above  the  devils'  voices  which  mocked  him  with  his 


150  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

weakness,  and  with  the  dangers  of  the  way,  there  floated 
in  to  him  the  anthem  which  he  had  heard  from  his  child- 
hood at  the  Temple  Church — "  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my 
Father." 

Then  slowly  and  l>y  degrees  his  duty  began  to  dawn 
upon  him.  The  first  step  in  the  upward  progress  taken 
revealed  the  second.  It  was  a  hard  one.  Nevertheless  he 
took  it  resolutely,  manfully.  By  this  time  the  congrega- 
tion was  beginning  to  disperse.  Hugo  bent  forward, 
caught  Joyce's  eye,  and  deliberately  signed  to  her  to  come 
up  to  the  gallery.  Then,  raising  himself,  he  made  his  way 
with  some  difficulty  into  the  little  room  beyond,  and  there 
awaited  her. 

She  came  in  quickly,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
a  smile  of  eager  congratulation. 

"Why,  Karl!  have  you  walked  in  here?  'Tis  the  first 
time  you  have  walked  alone  !" 

He  was  standing  beside  the  window  which  looked  out  at 
the  back  of  the  house  and  right  down  the  oak  avenue, 
where  he  had  last  walked  with  Randolph  and  Peter. 

"The  first  time  you  have  walked  alone!"  Her  words 
seemed  to  him  to  bear  a  deeper  meaning  than  she  had  in- 
tended; he  smiled  a  very  little,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
pain. 

But  Joyce  was  quick  at  reading  faces,  and  she  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  suffering. 

"You  are  worse,  Karl.  What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  a 
sudden  terror  taking  possession  of  her  as  the  pain  in  his 
face  deepened. 

"I  begged  you  to  come,"  he  began,  speaking  quickly  and 
yet  forcibly;  "I  desired  to  see  you,  that  I  might  confess  a 
grave  wrong  which  I  fear  will  injure  your  father." 

"Karl.!"  she  exclaimed,  trembling,  "  you  speak  English  ? 
You  knew  it  all  the  time  ?" 

"  Call  me  not  Karl !"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  effort. 
"That  name  must  be  forever  hateful  to  me.  Joyce, 
Cousin  Joyce !  I  am  no  musician,  no  German  ;  I  am  your 
miserable  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe." 

"  ^ou  are  Hugo  Wharncliffe !"  she  repeated,  with  a  look 
of  utter  bewilderment. 

"  Ay  ;  would  to  Heaven  I  were  not !"  he  said,  passion- 
ately ;  would  to  Heaven  I  were  not  !" 

He  turned  away,  trying  to  hide  from  her  the  rush  of 
shame  and  anguish  that  overwhelmed  him. 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Presently  her  voice  fell  upon 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  151 

his  car.  She  spoke  very  gravely,  very  gently,  and  there 
was  in  her  tone  a  curious  touch  of  sadness,  as  though  she 
knew  that  behind  this  strange  confession  there  lay  some 
grievous  wrong. 

"  Cousin  Hugo" — she  just  touched  his  arm — "  Cousin 
Hugo,  you  must  sit  down,  or  you  will  overtire  yourself." 

He  obeyed  her,  being,  in  fact,  scarcely  able  to  stand 
longer. 

Again  there  was  silence.     At  last  Joyce  spoke. 

"Why  did  you  seek  to  injure  my  father?"  she  said, 
struggling  hard  to  repress  the  indignation  that  raged 
within  her. 

"God  knows  I  did  not  seek  to  injure  him,"  said  Hugo. 

"Ah!" — a  light  broke  upon  her — "it  was,  then,  that 
other,  the  one  whom  we  called  your  father  !  Ah !  I  kuew 
— I  knew  from  the  first  that  he  was  hard  and  bad  and 
cruel.  And  I  might  have  known  that  you  would  not  have 
done  it." 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  nay,  blame  him  not.  If  his  was  the 
brain  to  conceive,  mine  was  the  arm  to  execute.  Joyce, 
Joyce,  have  pity  on  me  !  Hate  me  not  ;  hate  the  crime, 
but  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  hate  me  !" 

"  How  could  I  hate  you  ?"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  hate  you  ? 
—If 

Her  sweet  eyes  met  his  fully  ;  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
strangle  the  passionate  words  of  love  which  rose  to  his 
lips.  But  this  was  no  fit  moment  to  speak  ;  with  an  effort 
which  seemed  to  rend  his  very  heart,  he  turned  from 
thoughts  of  Joyce  and  of  love  to  the  torturing  thought  of 
his  crime,  and  the  tardy  reparation  for  which  he  must  strive. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  almost  sternly.  "  My  brother 
brought  me  to  this  house  last  October.  We  overlooked  a 
meeting  which  was  being  held  here.  That  assured  him  of 
one  bit  of  evidence  against  your  father.  He  brought  me 
again  a  month  since,  to  search  for  surer  evidence  still. 
We  found  ourselves  locked  into  this  part  of  the  house. 
The  only  way  to  search  the  premises  was  to  climb  over  the 
gallery,  and  so  into  the  hall.  He  bade  me  do  it — I  refused. 
Then  he  threatened  to  shoot  me  on  the  spot,  and — I 
yielded." 

His  voice  sunk,  he  writhed  under  the  remembrance, 
writhed  under  the  torture  of  confessing  his  weakness  to 
Joyce. 

"  And  you  found  something  ?"  said  the  girl. 

"  Ay,  I  found  papers  which  I  fear  will  make  it  go  hard 


L<32  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

with  your  father.  The  greater  number  my  brother  bore 
away  with  him.  But  one  book  of  manuscripts  was  too 
large  for  him  to  carry,  and  Le  left  it  with  me  till  his  re- 
turn." 

He  unlocked  the  case  belonging  to  his  lute,  and  showed 
ber  a  book  secreted  there. 

"  This  at  least  I  can  restore,"  he  said,  "  this  confession  I 
can  at  least  make  ;  your  father  may  yet  find  safety  in  flight, 
and,  by  all  that  is  holy,  I  swear  that  I  will  never  give  evi- 
dence against  him !" 

Joyce  did  not  in  the  least  realize  all  that  this  promise 
would  involve,  but  there  was  that  in  Hugo's  manner  which 
made  the  tears  rush  to  her  eyes. 

"  And  you  would  have  me  bear  these  tidings  to  my  fath- 
er ?"  she  said,  gently. 

He  signed  an  assent  and  turned  away,  too  miserable  to 
speak  another  word. 

Joyce  stood  still  for  a  minute,  thinking. 

"  Cousin  Hugo,"  she  said,  presently,  "  tell  me  one  thing  ; 
I  think  it  must  have  been  you  who  fought  that  bad  man  last 
October  outside  the  park  ;  I  think — I  feel  sure  it  was  you 
who  warned  us  that  Sunday  in  the  barn.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  God  bless  you  for  remembering  !"  he  exclaimed,  pas- 
sionately. And,  turning,  he  hastily  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it. 

"  Be  not  too  miserable,"  she  said  ;  "  be  glad  at  least  in 
this  ;  that  this  has  happened  with  our  father  rather  than 
with  one  of  harder  nature.  Oh !  he  will  be  very  good  to 
you,  he  will  bear  no  malice." 

And  with  this  comfort  she  left  the  room, while  Hugo  flung 
himself  down  on  the  bed,  well  aware  that  his  kinsman's 
forgiveness  would  be  worse  to  bear  than  blows. 

He  waited  long  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  remorse.  The 
room  was  now  almost  dark,  and  in  the  soft  gray  of  the  mid- 
summer sky  he  could  see  stars  shining  out  one  by  one.  Pres- 
ently the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  was  opened,  and 
some  one  came  up  bearing  a  lamp.  He  listened  appre- 
hensivply.  It  was  a  man's  tread,  it  was  doubtless  Colonel 
Wharncliffe.  Burying  his  face  in  the  pillow,  he  waited, 
motionless,  while  the  steps  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Could 
he  now  have  felt  the  cold  muzzle  of  Randolph's  pistol 
once  more  at  his  head  he  would  have  welcomed  it  and  courted 
death. 

He  heard  his  kinsman  enter  and  close  the  door  behind 
him,  and  then  he  also  closed  the  half-glass  door  which  led 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  153 

into  the  gallery,  then  he  set  down  the  lamp  and  drew  a 
chair  to  the  bedside. 

Still  Hugo  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

"  My  daughter  Joyce  has  delivered  your  message  to  me," 
he  began,  in  his  grave  voice. 

A  sort  of  shudder  passed  through  the  form  on  the  bed. 

"My  poor  lad,"  continued  the  colonel,  "I  am  right 
grieved  for  you.  *Your  mother,  a  noble  lady  whom  I  loved 
well,  would  have  been  sore  at  heart  could  she  have  fore- 
seen this  day." 

An  uncontrollable  sob  escaped  Hugo.  Such  a  reference 
at  such  a  time  was  almost  more  than  he  could  endure. 

"  Do  not  for  one  moment  think  that  I  blame  you,"  said 
the  colonel.  "God  forbid  that  I  should  judge  you  in 
aught.  And,  indeed,  I  can  well  perceive  how  cruelly  your 
circumstances  made  for  your  fall.  I  blame  you  not,  I  will 
never  blame  you." 

"  Kill  me  not  with  kindness  !"  said  Hugo,  starting  up  and 
revealing  his  haggard,  agitated  face.  •"  Bather  blame  me, 
for  I  am  to  be  blamed." 

"Nay,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely.  "Christ  permitteth 
us  not  to  rebuke  those  who,  having  offended  against  us, 
have  repented.  For  such  there  must  be  naught  but  for- 
giveness. Why,  niy  poor  lad,  who  would  be  benefited  by 
blame  or  rebuke?  Already  you  know  full  well  all  that 
your  wrong-doing  will  bring  to  pass.  What  need  of  words 
of  mine  ?" 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence.  Hugo,  keenly 
conscious  of  the  contrast  between  this  man's  noble  gener- 
osity and  his  own  treachery,  humbled  to  the  dust  by  the 
perception  of  his  own  meanness,,  was  yet  irresistibly  at- 
tracted to  his  kinsman.  We  hate  those  whom  we  injure 
just  so  long  as  we  do  not  repent  of  the  injury.  But  the 
forgiver  by  his  very  divineness  attracts. 

"  If  you  will  only  conceal%yourself ,"  began  Hugo,  eager- 
ly. "There  is  yet  one  thing*  thatd  can  do  to  make  some 
sort  of  reparation,  though  that,  indeed,  is  too  great  a  word 
for  such  slight  amends." 

"Joyce  mentioned  to  me  something  of  the  sort.  She 
says  that  you  propose  not  to  give  evidence  against  me." 

"  That  is  the  least  I  can  do,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 

"I  could  not  let  you  make  such  a  sacrifice,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  You  are  very  young,  you  hardly  realize  what  it 
would  involve." 

"  Sir,"  said  Hugo,  "  sacrifice  is  hardly  a  suitable  word 


154:  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

as  between  yourself  and  me.  Torture  me  not  by  refusing 
to  accept  the  only  amends  in  my  power.  It  is  no  question 
of  sacrifice,  but  of  plain  duty." 

"  Nobly  spoken,"  said  the  colonel.  "  Yet  remember  that 
this  course  will  bring  you  into  certain  trouble.  You  will 
incur  imprisonment,  and  our  prisons  are  such  hells  on 
earth  that  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  such  a  thing  for 
you." 

"  Think  not  of  me  !':  broke  in  Hugo,  passionately. 
"  Why  will  you  speak  of  naught  else  ?  I  am  outside  the 
question  altogether.  Think  of  your  own  safety,  of  your 
wife,  of  your  children.  Escape  or  hide  while  there  is  yet 
time." 

"  You  speak  your  innermost  heart  in  all  truth  ?"  ques- 
tioned the  colonel. 

"  Yes,  a  thousand  times  over,"  said  Hugo.  "  Think  of 
them,  and  let  me  bear  the  natural  consequences  of  what  I 
have  done.  Bring  hither  a  Bible,  and  I  will  swear  to  you 
never  to  breathe  aught  against  you." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  colonel,  "an  oath  is  no  more  sacred  than  a 
promise.  I  will  trust  your  word.  I  hold  not  in  all  things 
with  the  Quakers,  but  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  the  reckless 
swearing  of  these  days  imports  an  element  of  profaneness 
even  into  an  oatb  taken  with  due  solemnity.  I  will  trust 
your  word." 

"  Then,"  said  Hugo,  firmly,  "  I  promise  that  I  will  never 
give  evidence  against  you.  I  thank  you  for  your  trust." 

He  fell  back  again  on  the  bed,  exhausted  by  all  that  he 
had  passed  through,  but  yet  feeling  already  a  lessening  of 
the  intolerable  load  which  had  for  so  long  weighed  upon 
him. 

They  fell  to  talking  of  the  news  from  London,  and  the 
Colonel  explained  to  Hugo  his  views,  which  were  almost 
identical  with  those  of  Sidney.  Of  the  plot  to  murder  the 
king  and  the  duke  he  had  not  heard  a  single  word,  and, 
since  plots  were  in  those  times  so  often  the  mere  fabrica- 
tion of  the  enemies  of  the  accused,  he  was  inclined  to  dis- 
credit it  altogether. 

The  two  talked  far  into  the  night,  Hugo  telling  his  kins- 
man of  his  acquaintance  with  Colonel  Sidney,  of  his  stay  at 
Penshurst,  of  his  London  life,  'and  of  his  relations  toward 
his  brother.  The  Colonel  grew  more  and  more  interested 
in  a  character  which  seemed  to  him  so  full  of  promise^  and 
so  cruelly  fettered  by  its  surroundings.  A  youth  who  had 
kept  himself  from  all  grossness  in  the  court  of  King  Charles 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  155 

was,  indeed,  almost  a  phenomenon.  And  there  was  no 
mistaking  Hugo's  genuine  purity  of  heart  and  life. 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  in  truth  almost  diverted  from 
the  thought  of  his  own  peril  by  tbe  perception  of  the  great 
difficulties  which  lay  before  this  son  of  his  old  friend.  For 
himself,  he  was  an  old  soldier,  and  had  liver1  through  many 
dangers.  Moreover,  he  was  constitutionally  brave.  It  is 
not  always  easy,  however,  for  brave  people  to  be  brave  for 
others,  and  he  shrunk  not  a  little  from  the  thought  of  all  the 
suffering  which  lay  before  his  young  kinsman,  who,  after 
all,  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

"  I  have  warned  the  village  cobbler  to  let  me  know  at 
once  should  any  suspicious  looking  party  arrive  in  the 
village.  Therefore,  if  your  brother,  with  any  officer 
capable  of  making  an  arrest,  arrives  by  that  road,  we  shall 
be  warned  in  time." 

"  You  will  not  make  your  escape  at  once  ?"  asked  Hugo. 

"  There  is  no  need/'  said  the  colonel.  "  I  have  a  sure 
hiding-place  close  at  hand.  Precisely  where  it  is  I  will  not 
inform  you,  in  order  that,  if  put  to  the  proof,  you  may  with 
truth  deny  all  knowledge  of  my  movements.  And  now  I 
will  bid  you  good-night  ;  had  I  but  found  before  that  you 
were  my  kinsman  you  should  have  had  the  guest-chamber. 
After  all,  though,  I  doubt  whether  we  could  have  safely 
moved  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

REPARATION. 

Love  give  me  strength, 

And  strength  shall  help  afford. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

LEFT  once  more  to  himself  Hugo,  still  greatly  agitated 
by  all  he  had  suffered  that  evening,  found  sleep  impossible. 
True,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  shame  and  perplexity,  he 
already  felt  something  of  the  relief  of  confession,  but  with 
the  relief  there  was  a  bewildering  consciousness  that  this 
was  only  a  brief  pause,  a  sort  of  breathing  space,  betwixt 
his  confession  and  the  certain  results  of  his  wrong-doing. 
Another  day,  a  few  h»urs,  and  he  might  be  a  prisoner, 
with  another  man's  life  under  the  protection  of  his  strength 
of  purpose.  A  few  hours,  and  he  might  be  borne  away 


156  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAY?. 

from  Mondisfield  forever !  A  few  hours,  and  he  might 
have  looked  his  last  on  Joyce !  No  wonder  that  sleep  re- 
fused to  come  to  his  excited  brain.  Wearily  he  tossed 
to  and  fro  on  his  pallet-bed,  weighing  the  probabili- 
ties of  the  future,  alternating  between  wild  hopes 
and  ghastly  fears,  and,  worse  than  all,  haunted  by 
the  thought  that  Randolph's  will  might  a  second  time 
overpower  his,  a  second  time  make  him  a  traitor  to  his  con- 
science. Then  he  wandered  back  again  to  thoughts  of 
Algernon  Sidney,  and  he  wondered  whether  it  would  be 
possible  to  write  to  him,  tell  him  the  whole  truth,  and  ask 
his  advice.  Often  in  these  wretched  weeks  of  waiting  he 
had  pondered  the  feasibility  of  such  a  plan,  but  had  al- 
ways been  debarred  by  the  impossibility  of  not  writing 
such  a  letter  as  would  betray  his  real  character,  and  prove 
him  not  to  be  Karl,  the  German  lutist. 

And  now,  alas  !  another  obstacle  had  ariseu.  He  might 
write  a  letter  in  his  own  character,  but  to  do  so  would 
perchance  involve  Colonel  Sidney  in  his  disgrace.  At  all 
costs  he  must  not  risk  that,  he  must  die  in  silence  rather 
than  bring  him  into  danger — if  indeed  he  were  not  al- 
already  in  danger,  as  was  only  too  probable. 

That  he  should  escape  when  all  the  Whigs  were  suspected, 
that  he  should  be  allowed  fair  play  when  there  was  a  chance 
of  seizing  him,  was,  indeed,  a  consummation  devoutly  to 
be  wished,  but  not  in  the  least  to  be  expected.  A  plot  to 
murder  the  king  and  the  duke  !  Why,  Algernon  Sidney 
would  be  one  of  the  first  to  be  arrested,  bis  foes  would  be 
so  thankful  for  any  excuse  for  getting  him  out  of  the 
way. 

This  dangerous  man,  this  avowed  republican,  whose  mur- 
der had  again  and  again  been  attempted  by  the  court 
party,  who  was  more  feared  than  anybody,  because  "it 
was  known  he  could  not  be  corrupted  ;"*  that,  while  others 
might  be  bought  over  to  the  royal  interests,  Sidney, 
sternly  incorruptible,  would  remain  forever  true  to  his  own 
principles. 

Hugo  could  only  hope  that  he  might  retire  to  France, 
and  find  again  safety  in  exile,  but  the  weary  sense  of  his 
own  helplessness,  and  the  fears  which  he  knew  were  well- 
founded,  weighed  heavily  on  his  heart,  while  again  and 

*  See  Sidney's  "Apology."  The  remark  was  made  by  one  of 
his  friends  and  given  in  explanation  of  the  great  hostility  of  the 
court  party. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  157 

again  he  recollected  the  grim  foreboding  of  coming  evil 
which  had  oppressed  him  at  their  last  parting. 

Sidney's  words  rang  in  his  ears,  but  they  rang  now  like 
a  death-knell,  though  at  the  same  time  they  had  been 
cheerfully  spoken  : 

"  We  shall  meet  again  in  London !" 
Ay,  in  London.     But  where? 

It  was  not  until  the  sunrise  that  sleep  came  to  him,  still- 
ing for  a  time  the  weary  train  of  apprehensive  thoughts. 
The  household  was  soon  after  astir,  the  dairy-maid  churn- 
ing, the  cow-boy  coming  in  with  the  morning  milk,  the 
gardener  mowing  the  bowling-green,  and  whistling  as  he 
sharpened  his  scythe.  But  Hugo  WBS  sleeping  too  sound- 
ly to  be  disturbed  ;  he  did  not  even  hear  the  steps  which 
sometime  later  ascended  the  little  staircase  ;  he  did  not 
hear  his  door  open,  or  know  that  one  stood  beside  his  bed, 
looking  down  at  him  sadly,  and  with  fatherly  pity. 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  obliged  to  rouse  him. 
He  started  up  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  and  the  face,  so 
peaceful  in  sleep,  instantly  resumed  its  expression  of  suf- 
fering and  of  strained  anxiety. 

"  I  came  to  bid  you  farewell,"  said  the  colonel.  •*  It  is 
as  we  feared  ;  the  cobbler  has  brought  me  word  that  a 
stranger  has  arrived  this  morning  at  the  village  inn,  and 
with  him  Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and  two  constables,  with 
half  a  dozen  men  in  attendance.  They  have  stopped  at 
the  inn,  and  will  breakfast  there  before  proceeding. " 

"  Escape,  then  ;  escape  while  there  is  time !"  said  Hugo, 
eagerly.  "  Why  linger  here  with  me?" 

"  I  would  have  you  escape  with  me,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  Share  my  hiding-place.  Even  were  we  found,  your  fate 
could  scarcely  be  worse  than  it  will  be  now." 

"  And  who  would  meet  my  brother  ?"  said  Hugo. 
"  Who  would  bear  the  brunt  of  the  inquiries  ?  who  would 
suffer  from  his  wrath  ?  Your  wife,  perhaps  your  daugh- 
ters. Ah  !  you  look  incredulous,  but  you  do  not  know  my 
brother." 

"  In  that  case  I  will  stay  with  them  myself,"  said  the 
colonel,  composedly. 

"  No,"  broke  in  Hugo,  passionately,  "  you  must  not,  you 
shall  not  stay.  I  beg  you — I  implore  you — let  me  make 
the  only  amends  in  my  power.  Have  I  not  given  you  my 
word  ?  Would  you  have  me  go  back  from  it  ?" 

"My poor  lad, I  believe  that  you  are  indeed  as  brave  and 
as  true — ay,  and  as  faithful  to  me  as  my  own  son  might 


158  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

have  been.     But,  look  you,  this  will  be  a  hard  matter,  and 
you  are  but  young — very  young." 

"  Not  too  young  to  suffer,"  said  Hugo,  resolutely,  "  or  to 
hold  my  tongue.  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  but  1 
can  not  and  will  not  escape." 

"Then,"  said  the  colonel,  solemnly,  "may  the  Almighty 
strengthen  you  and  bless  you.  Farewell,  my  son." 

He  wruDg  his  hand,  and  turned  away. 

It  was  not  till  he  had  "Seen  gone  some  time  that  Hugo 
recollected  the  manuscript  book,  which,  in  all  the  haste 
and  confusion,  had  been  left  behind  in  his  lute-case.  He 
took  it  forth,  hastily  rearranged  his  dress,  then,  giving  one 
last  look  round  the  little  room  in  which  he  had  undergone 
so  much,  he  made  his  way,  for  the  first  time  since  his  acci- 
dent, down  the  steep  stairs  and  into  the  hall. 

The  first  person  he  met  was  Joyce. 

She  was  looking  very  pale  and  anxious.  The  thought 
that  he  had  brought  this  suffering  upon  her  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  endure;  but  it  was  no  time  to  think  of 
personal  pain,  or  even  of  self-reproach.  Stifling  the  words 
of  regret  and  shame  which  rose  to  his  lips,  he  abruptly 
opened  the  subject  that  was  of  real  importance. 

"  Cousin  Joyce,"  he  said,  "  your  father  bore  not  with  him 
this  book  of  treatises.  It  must  be  hidden  right  speedily, 
or  we  shall  be  undone." 

She  mechanically  held  out  her  hand  for  it,  and  motioned 
to  him  to  sit  down  in  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs. 

"You  should  not  have  walked  down  alone,  Cousin  Hugo; 
you  look  very  ill.  But,  oh,  tell  me — tell  me  quick  where  to 
hide  this.  I  can  think  of  naught  this  morning,  my  head  is 
so  weary." 

"  Could  you  not  burn  it  ?"  said  Hugo. 

"There  is  but  the  kitchen  fire,  and  the  maids  are  in  the 
kitchen,  and  would  see  all." 

"Then  tie  a  stone  to  it  and  fling  it  in  the  moat,"  he  said, 
decidedly.  "And  make  all  possible  speed.  Oh,  if  I  only 
had  the  use  of  my  limbs  !"  He  broke  off  in  uncontrollable 
impatience,  chafed  almost  beyond  endurance  at  feeling  that 
he,  the  only  available  man,  the  sole  protector  of  the  house- 
hold, was  invalided. 

"  Vex  not  yourself,"  said  Joyce,  soothingly  ;  "  I  will  in- 
deed make  haste.  See,  I  will  not  linger  one  moment." 

She  ran  swiftly  out  of  the  hall,  found  a  weight  and  a 
cord,  tied  the  book  securely,  and  hurried  out  bareheaded 
from  the  back  door.  The  morning  was  fine,  the  hot  mid- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  159 

summer  sun  beat  full  down  upon  her  as  she  ran,  glancing 
apprehensively  across  the  water  into  the  park,  to  see  if  any 
witnesses  were  in  sight.  All  was  still  and  peaceful,  how- 
ever ;  cruelly  peaceful,  it  seemed  to  Joyce.  How  could  the 
birds  sing  so  distractingly,  how  could  the  cattle  graze 
with  such  provoking  calmness,  how  could  all  nature  bear 
so  composed  a  face,  when  her  father  lay  concealed  within 
his  own  house,  deeming  himself  secure,  indeed,  but  yet 
running  no  small  risk  of  discovery  should  a  thorough 
search  of  the  premises  be  instituted  ?  And  Hugo  !  Come 
what  might,  he  must  suffer  ;  come  what  might,  he  must  be 
borne  away  by  the  cruel  brother  who  had  already  once 
threatened  to  shoot  him,  and  who  was.  doubtless,  quite 
capable  of  doing  the  deed.  Joyce's  heart  felt  fit  to 
break  as  she  thought  of  it ;  the  tears  blinded  her  eyes,  but 
she  dashed  them  away,  that  she  might  see  how  best  to  drop 
the  precious  book.  For  now  she  stood  on  the  little  wooden 
bridge,  and  had  not  Hugo  bade  her  be  quick  ?  One  more 
hurried  glance  around,  then  she  threw  the  book  over  the  rail 
and  watched  it  splash  down  into  the  water  below.  In  a  dull 
mechanical  sort  of  way  she  watched  the  widening  circles  in 
the  water  as  they  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Presently  all  was 
calm  once  more,  and  the  book  was  securely  buried  in  its 
watery  grave.  But  yet  something  had  happened  which  made 
Joyce  clutch  at  the  railing  of  the  bridge  and  turn  deathly, 
white.  For,  as  the  circles  died  away  upon  the  water  a  faint, 
monotonous  sound  fell  upon  her  ear ;  she  scarcely  knew, 
at  first,  whether  it  might  not  be  the  beating  of  her  own 
heart  She  paused  and  listened  once  more.  Nearer  and 
nearer  that  dreaded  sound  was  fast  approaching — "  One- 
two,  one-two,  one-two  !"  Horses'  hoofs,  beyond  a  doubt ! 
The  horsemen  who  were  coming  to  seek  her  father's 
ruin;  the  horsemen  who  would  assuredly  bear  Hugo 
away. 

Well,  at  least  she  would  tell  him  the  book  was  safe  ; 
at  least  she  would  bid  him  farewell. 

Breathlessly  she  hurried  to  the  hall.  Hugo  was  still 
leaning  back  in  the  chair  beside  the  hearth,  where  she  had 
left  him. 

"  Cousin  Hugo,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  is  safe  ;  but,  oh,  I 
hear  the  sound  of  horsemen  in  the  distance ! " 

Her  face  was  blanched  with  fear. 

"  Will  you  not  trust  me  ?"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  would 
sooner  die  than  betray  your  father." 

"  Trust  you !"  she  cried.      "  Ay,  I  would  trust  you  before 


160  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

all  the  world.  But,  oh !  Cousin  Hugo,  it  is  for  you  that  I 
fear.  What  may  they  not  do  to  you  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell,"  he  replied;  "  I  do  not  wish  to  think.  It 
is  enough  for  me  if  I  can,  by  silence,  shelter  you.  Sweet 
cousin,  do  not  weep  :  your  tears  pain  me  far  more  than  can 
their  blows." 

Betty  and  Damaris  joined  them  ere  more  could  be  said, 
and  Joyce  dried  her  eyes,  and  crossed  the  hall  to  look 
forth  from  the  window. 

"  They  come !"  she  cried,  after  a  minute's  silence,  during 
which  Hugo  had  been  trying  to  understand  how  the  other 
girls  regarded  him;  whether  their  trust  in  his  honor  was 
as  complete  as  Joyce's.  There  was  a  stir  and  a  commotion 
all  through  the  house;  the  members  of  the  family  gathered 
together  in  the  hall;  some  looked  apprehensively  at  the 
approaching  horsemen,  some  looked  at  the  slight,  boyish 
figure  in  the  chair  by  the  hearth,  upon  whom  their  fate  de- 
pended. Poor  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  sighed  as  she  looked.  He 
was  so  young,  so  little  able  to  resist  a  stronger  will.  It 
seemed,  indeed,  to  her  that  her  husband  had  trusted  to  a 
broken  reed  in  trusting  to  his  young  kinsman's  honor.  He 
might  mean  well  enough,  but  how  could  he  cope  with  the 
guardian  who  was  double  his  age,  and  who  had  three  times 
his  force  of  character  ? 

She  had  yet  to  learn  that  character  is  not  ready-made, 
but  is  created  bit  by  bit  and  day  by  day. 

The  horsemen  drew  nearer,  crossed  the  draw-bridge,  rode 
up  to  the  door,  and  dismounted.  There  was  a  buzz  of  con- 
versation without,  but  within  there  reigned  an  unbroken 
silence.  All  eyes  were  turned  now  upon  Hugo.  He  still 
leaned  back  in  the  chair.  Would  he  never  move  ?  Would 
he  never  speak  ?  Was  this  their  protector  ?  This  the  man. 
upon  whom  depended  their  whole  future  ? 

A  thundering  knock  at  the  hall  door  brought  Dennis, 
the  man,  to  open  it. 

"  Is  Colonel  Wharncliffe  within  ?  "  asked  Sir  Peregrine 
Blake. 

"  He  is  away  from  home,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  com* 
posetlly. 

The  magistrate  swore  a  deep  oath.  But  another  voice 
interrupted  him  impatiently : 

"  Away  from  home  !  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Here, 
sirrah  !  let  me  enter.  The  traitor  is  in  hiding  somewhere. 
Jjet  us  by,  you  villain  !  I  tell  you  we  have  a  warrant  for 
bis  arrest.  Where  is  the  young  German  lad  ?  " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  161 

Dennis  knew  that  to  resist  the  entrance  of  the  magistrate 
and  the  attendants  was  useless  ;  he  stood  aside,  and  they 
made  their  way  into  the  hall. 

"  Where  is  Karl,  the  lutist  ?  "  reiterated  Randolph,  im- 
patiently. 

No  one  replied,  but  Hugo  slowly  raised  himself,  and 
walked  forward  a  few  paces. 

"  There  is  no  one  of  that  name  present,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  I  have  dropped  all  disguise,  Randolph  ;  our  kinsfolk 
know  my  name." 

Randolph,  taking  no  notice  of  any  one  else,  rushed 
straight  up  to  his  brother,  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and 
shook  him  much  as  a  cat  shakes  a  mouse  preparatory  to 
killing  it. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  said,  through  his  teeth. 

Hugo  made  no  reply. 

"What  did  you  mean?"  repeated  Randolph.  "Have 
you  warned  that  traitor  ?" 

"  I  confessed  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe  that  I  had  played 
the  spy  in  his  house,"  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  warned  him,  knowing  that  to  do  so  would  ruin  my 
plans  ?" 

"  I  warned  him,  knowing  that  it  was  right  to  do  so." 

"  Then  take  that  for  your  reward !" 

And  he  dealt  him  a  blow  which  made  him  measure  his 
length  on  the  flag-stones. 

There  was  a  sort  of  subdued  exclamation  in  the  group 
of  spectators.  The  daughters  of  the  house — a  little  group 
of  gray  gowns  and  broad  white  collars,  contrasting 
strangely  with  the  bright  colors  worn  by  the  invading 
body — shrunk  nearer  to  their  mother,  who  stood  before 
them  like  a  hen  sheltering  her  chickens.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  anxiety  in  her  face, 
but  to  insult  her  calm  dignity  would  have  been  impossible. 
Randolph  took  off  his  hat  as  he  turned  to  her,  and  bowed 
slightly. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  this  gentleman" — he  indicated  an 
officer  who  stood  beside  Sir  Peregrine — "  bears  a  warrant 
for  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  arrest.  He  is  charged  with  com- 
plicity in  the  plot  to  kill  his  majesty  and  the  Duke  of 
York." 

"  Whosoever  charges  him  with  such  a  crime  charges 
him  falsely,"  she  said,  with  a  calm  smile. 

"  Madame,"  continued  Randolph,  "  your  husband  is 
charged  upon  certain  evidence  ;  I  myself  deposed  to  his 


162  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

disaffection  toward  the  Government,  his  own  papers  proved 
the  like,  and  my  brother  will  confirm  all,  and  render  the 
evidence  irrefutable." 

"  Never  !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  emphatically. 
He   was  on  his   feet   again.     His  eyes  flashed  as  even 
dreamy  gray  eyes    can  flash  upon   occasion.     He  looked 
full  at  Randolph,  as  though  daring  him  to  do  his  worst. 

Randolph  returned  his  gaze  with  one  of  prolonged,  in- 
quiring scrutiny.  This  sudden  development  of  resolution, 
of  courage,  of  opposition,  surprised  him  not  a  little.  It 
upset  all  his  calculations. 

"More  of  that  anon,"  he  remarked  after  a  pause.  Then, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  "  I  must  trouble  you,  madame, 
to  tell  us  where  your  husband  is." 

"  My»husband  is  absent,"  she  answered,  quietly.  "And  I 
can  give  you  no  information  as  to  his  movements." 

Randolph  stepped  across  to  the  officer,  and  they  con- 
sulted together  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  the  officer 
crossed  the  hall. 

"It  will  be  our  duty,  madame,  to  search  the  premises," 
he  said,  "  and  in  the  meantime  the  household  will  remain 
here  in  view  of  two  of  my  men." 

She  bowed  assent,  and  with  great  dignity  moved  to  one 
of  the  carved  arm-chairs  beside  the  hearth.  The  girls  fol- 
lowed her,  and  stood  around  her  chair.  Hugo  went  back 
to  his  old  quarters  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  while 
at  the  further  end  of  the  hall  Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and 
Randolph  sat  talking  together  over  the  tankards  of  ale 
for  which  they  had  not  scrupled  to  ask.  The  two  con- 
stables paced  up  and  down,  keeping  guard,  and  wishing 
themselves  with  their  fellows,  who  were  enjoying  a  far 
more  exciting  game  of  hide-and-seek. 

Endless  seemed  the  waiting-time  to  all  concerned,  but 
more  especially  to  those  who  waited  beside  the  hearth. 
The  secret  hiding-place  was,  indeed,  hard  to  find,  but  if 
by  evil  chance  they  were  to  come  across  it ! 

The  suspense  was  a  slow  agon}T.  It  required  all  Mrs. 
'Wharncliffe's  well-bred  self-control  to  prevent  her  from 
starting  as  the  steps  of  the  searchers  were  heard  over- 
head, here,  there,  and  everywhere,  about  the  rambling  old 
house.  She  heard  every  sound,  every  exclamation,  every 
door  which  was  opened  or  shut.  The  whole  power  of  her 
being  seemed  to  have  concentrated  itself  into  the  sense  of 
hearing.  But,  for  all  that,  she  betrayed  no  emotion,  only 
sat  very  still  and  held  little  Evelyn's  hand  fast. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  163 

At  length  came  the  longed-for  relief !  The  party  re- 
turned, confessing  that  they  had  made  a  thorough  search 
both  of  the  house  and  of  the  premises,  and  that  no  trace 
of  the  colonel  was  to  be  found.  Little  Evelyn  could  not 
restrain  a  relieved  smile;  the  others,  taking  their  cue  from 
their  mother,maintained  a  stately  indifference  of  expression. 

But  once  again  poor  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  trembled  as  she 
glanced  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  The  poor 
youth,  who  looked  so  weary,  so  worn  out — in  his  strength, 
in  his  steadfastness,  lay  their  hope  for  the  future  !  True, 
he  had  made  just  now  a  gallant  resistance.  But  the  effort 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  his  strength.  He  had  collapsed 
entirely.  The  fire  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes,  the  manliness 
had  gone  from  his  bearing,  he  watched  fixedly  the  brother 
who  had  hitherto  exercised  such  a  strange  influence  over 
him.  Oh  !  would  the  old  fascination  prove  too  strong  for 
him  ?  would  his  resolution  fail  ? 

She  was  recalled  from  her  own  thoughts  by  a  stormy  al- 
tercation at  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 

"  Not  found  him  ?  "  exclaimed  Kandolph.  "  Idiots !  I 
tell  you  he  shall  be  found !  I'll  get  the  truth  of  that 
boy  ;  bring  him  forward !  " 

The  two  constables  moved  toward  Hugo,  but  he  waved 
them  back,  and  he  himself  walked  steadily  toward  his 
brother,  who,  following  Sir  Peregrine,  had  approached  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall. 

"  Now,  lad,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  not  unkindly,  "  I've  long 
ago  forgiven  you  the  wound  you  gave  me,  and  it  is  as  a  friend 
Ixounsel  you  to  obey  your  brother,  and  reveal  all  that  you 
know  about  this  confounded  colonel.  What  is  his  fate  to 
you  ?  Your  duty  to  your  brother,  your  duty  to  your  sov- 
ereign, alike  demand  that  you  shall  disclose  this  matter." 

"Sir,"  said  Hugo,  respectfully,  "you  demand  what  is 
impossible. " 

"Impossible!  What  nonsense  is  this?  Impossible!  How 
impossible  ?" 

"  Impossible,  sir,  because  it  is  against  my  conscience." 

Sir  Peregrine  laughed  aloud. 

"  By  the  powers,  if  that  isn't  the  same  thing  he  said  be- 
fore our  duel !  Conscience — I  know  nothing  of  conscience ! 
All  I  know  is  that  you  owe  duty  to  your  king  and  to  your 
brother,  and  that  you  owe  naught  to  this  traitor." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  "there  is  one  thing  we  owe 
to  all  men,  whether  they  be  friends  or  foes — we  owe  them 
justice." 


164  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"We  waste  time  bandying  words,"  said  Sir  Peregrine, 
impatiently.  "  It  would  be  much  more  to  the  purpose,  lad, 
if  you  told  us  when  you  last  saw  Colonel  Wharncliffe." 

"More  to  your  purpose,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  quietly,  "but 
not  to  mine. " 

"Leave  him  to  me,  Blake,"  said  Randolph,  interposing. 
"  Why  attempt  to  argue  with  him  ?  I'll  find  more  convinc- 
ing arguments  than  words." 

He  laid  a  firm  hand  on  Hugo's  shoulder,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  him,  said,  in  a  low  yet  strangely  forceful  voice, 

"  Just  now,  Hugo,  you  said  that  you  would  never  give 
evidence  against  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  Do  you  know  that 
such  a  refusal  will  render  you  guilty  of  misprision  of 
treason  ?" 

"  I  know  that  I  should  be  charged  with  misprision,"  he 
replied. 

"  You  will  be  charged,  and  most  assuredly  found  guilty. 
And  the  penalty  of  misprision  of  treason  is  imprisonment 
for  life." 

Hugo  made  a  sign  of  assent,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  will  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
incur  this  in  order  to  shelter  the  foe  of  your  own  fam- 
ily?" 

"  I  will  suffer  it  in  order  to  make  amends  for  an  act  of 
injustice,"  said  Hugo,  firmly. 

"  I  am  loath  to  take  you  at  your  word,"  said  Eandolph, 
his  face  clouding.  "  Once  more  I  will  give  you  a  chance. 
Do  you  refuse  to  obey  me  in  this  matter?" 

"  Ay,  sir,  I  respectfully  refuse." 

"  You  will  not  give  evidence  against  this  man  ?" 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  watchers  by  the  hearth.  The 
elder  brother  had  spoken  this  last  appeal  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  auger  ;  there  was  deep  regret,  deep  appeal  in  his 
tone.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  that  Hugo  wavered.  Was 
there  no  compromise  that  he  could  make?  Must  he 
definitely  and  forever  sever  himself  from  Randolph  ?  Must  * 
he  sacrifice  his  whole  life?  The  struggle  was  but  momen- 
tary, however.  His  eye  kindled,  a  great  calmness  over- 
spread his  face. 

"  I  will  never  witness  against  him,  so  help  me  God !" 

The  words  seemed  to  vibrate  through  the  little  assembly. 
They  had  not  been  spoken  loudly,  yet  they  fell  upon  the 
ears  of  all  present  with  a  curious  power. 

Their  effect  upon  Randolph  was  extraordinary.  In  nn 
instant  they  changed  him  from  the  elder  brother,  regret- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  165 

fully  showing  the  effect  of  this  course  of  action,  to  the 
stern,  almost  cruel  avenger. 

"  Well,  Sir  Peregrine,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  bring 
out  your  inkhorn  and  make  out  a  warrant  for  the  committal 
of  this  young  rebel." 

Sir  Peregrine  obeyed,  muttering  oaths  and  ejaculations, 
which  were  not  complimentary  to  the  rebel  in  question. 

Hugo  scarcely  heeded  them,  however.  In  a  dazed  way 
he  watched  the  magistrate  writing  slowly  and  laboriously 
the  order  which  was  to  deprive  him  of  his  freedom.  It  is 
not  in  the  first  moments  that  we  realize  all  the  meaning  of 
the  future  evil,  even  when  we  have  voluntarily  embraced 
that  evil.  There  is  a  time  of  numbness,  a  time  of  semi- 
paralysis,  which  almost  invariably  interposes  itself  between 
the  falling  of  the  blow  and  the  sharpest  of  the  suffering. 

There  was  no  lack  of  evidence  that  Hugo  had  in  fact 
concealed  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  supposed  treason.  He  had 
made  away  with  the  book  of  manuscripts,  had  warned  him 
of  the  danger  in  which  he  stood.  To  obtain  the  signature 
for  his  committal  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  minutes. 

But  Eandolph  had  not  yet  done  with  him.  Irritated  al- 
most beyond  endurance  by  the  calmness  of  his  bearing  he 
once  more  laid  forcible  hands  on  him. 

"  There  is  more  to  be  had  out  of  this  fellow  yet,  Blake.  He 
has  ruined  his  own  chances,  but  I'll  yet  have  some  sort  of 
clew  to  the  colonel's  hiding  place  from  him.  Find  that 
traitor  I  will.  Here,  sirrah,  bring  me  my  riding  whip." 

Mrs.  Wharncliffe  stepped  forward  with  an  eager  appeal. 

"  Sir,  I  implore  you  to  do  him  no  violence." 

But  there  she  checked  herself,  for  Hugo  gave  her  a 
warning  look,  she  knew  that  he  meant  his  tormentors  to 
deem  by  his  silence  that  with  him  only  lay  the  secret  of 
the  colonel's  movements.  Had  the  safety  of  any  but  her 
husband  depended  on  her  silence,  however,  she  could  not 
have  let  her  guest  suffer.  But  she  thought  of  her  hus- 
band, and  went  back  to  the  hearth.  Evelyn  and.  Damaris 
were  crying,  Betty  trying  to  comfort  them  ;  Frances  looked 
pale  and  anxious,  Robina  excited,  while  Joyce  stood,  her 
hands  locked  tightly  together,  her  eyes  dilated,  and  a 
burning  spot  of  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Joyce,  my  love  Joyce,"  said  her  mother,  softly. 

The  girl  turned,  caught  at  the  hand  stretched  out  to  her, 
and  crouched  down  beside  her  mother  with  her  face 
hidden.  She  did  not  cry,  but  she  trembled  from  head  to 
foot.  And  yet  all  the  time  she  was  making  a  desperate 


166  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ettort  to  still  herself,  for,  although  to  listen  was  torture, 
she  yet  longed  to  hear  whether  Hugo  spoke  or  not. 

"  When  did  you  confess  this  to  the  colonel,  and  when 
did  you  last  see  him  ?"  asked  the  elder  brother.  "  Mark 
me  well,  I  will  flog  you  till  you  answer  me." 

"  Then  you  may  flog  till  doomsday,"  was  Hugo's  reply. 

And  after  that  he  never  spoke;  not  a  sound  was  heard 
in  the  hall  save  the  sound  of  the  heavy  leathern  thong  as 
it  descended,  and  the  unanswered  questions,  reiterated 
from  time  to  time. 

To  Joyce  it  seemed  like  an  eternity.  At  length  the 
dreadful  monotony  was  broken  by  an  ejaculation  from  Sir 
Peregrine  Blake.  Floggings  were  very  common  in  those 
days — masters  constantly  flogged  their  servants,  and  par- 
ents their  sons.  But  they  did  it  in  moderation,  and  had 
some  regard  to  the  consequences.  In  his  wrath  Kandolph 
seemed  forgetful  of  these.  He  could  only  take  in  the  one 
maddening  thought  that  his  brother,  who  had  been  his 
obedient  tool,  was  now  withholding  the  one  thing  which 
he  longed  to  know. 

"  Odds-fish,  man !  you'll  kill  the  lad,"  exclaimed  the 
magistrate.  "  Be  warned  by  me,  and  stop,  for  it  would  be 
an  awkward  thing  for  a  magistrate  to  have  countenanced 
you." 

Then,  as  Kandolph  took  no  heed,  the  magistrate  beck- 
oned to  the  chief  constable. 

"  Take  the  prisoner  in  charge,  Mr.  Constable,"  he  said. 
"  He  is  your  property  now,  and  we  must  put  a  stop  to  this 
game." 

The  man,  who  had  very  reluctantly  witnessed  the  scene, 
promptly  stepped  forward,  and  intimated  to  Randolph  that 
the  prisoner  must  be  removed.  Kandolph,  in  a  violent 
passion,  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  oaths,  but  they  fell  off  the 
constable  like  water  off  a  duck's  back;  he  quietly  motioned 
to  his  men  to  assist  him,  and  together  they  bore  off  Hugo's 
inanimate  form  to  the  north  parlor. 

One  of  Sir  Peregrine  Blake's  servants  hurried  forward  as 
they  made  their  way  from  the  hall. 

"Tire  young  gentleman's  clothes,  sir,  which  we  brought 
from  Longbridge  ?  Shall  I  bear  them  to  him  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  "he'd  best  go  to  jail  in  his 
own  character,  not  as  a  strolling  musician.  Ay,  Launce, 
bear  them  after  him,  and  bid  him  make  haste  and  don 
them." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  167 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

"IT   IS   YOUR   LOVE   I   WANT." 

Love,  led  by  faith  and  fed  by  hope,  is  able 
To  travel  through  the  world's  wide  wilderness; 
And  burdens  seeming  most  intolerable 
Both  to  take  up  and  bear  with  cheerfulness. 
To  do  or  suffer,  what  appears  in  sight 
Extremely  heavy,  love  will  make  most  light. 

Yea,  what  by  men  is  done  or  suffered, 
Either  for  God,  or  else  for  one  another, 
Though  in  itself  it  be  much  blemished 
With  many  imperfections  which  smother, 
And  drown  the  worth  and  weight  of  it;  yet,  fall 
What  will  or  can,  love  makes  amends  for  all. 

CHRISTOPHER  HARVEY. 

ALL  this  time  Colonel  Wharncliffe  lay  securely  hidden  in 
the  secret  room  which  had  served  them  so  well.  High  up 
in  the  wall,  just  within  the  cupboard-like  entrance  to  the 
staircase  which  led  to  the  gallery,  there  was  a  tiny  sliding 
door,  large  enough  to  permit  a  man  to  creep  through  it  on 
hands  and  knees.  No  one  unacquainted  with  the  secret 
would  be  in  the  least  likely  to  discover  it,  and  it  could  only 
be  reached  by  means  of  a  ladder.  Crawling  through  the  nar- 
row aperture,  you  emerged  into  a  good-sized  room,  not  more 
than  five  feet  high,  however,  and  depending  for  light  and 
air  on  some  tiny  crevices  in  the  outer  wall.  It  was  be- 
tween the  ceiling  of  the  south  parlor  and  the  floor  of  the 
room  above,  and  it  would  have  been  quite  possible  to  live 
in  the  house  for  years  and  never  know  of  the  existence  of 
this  curiously  planned  retreat. 

Well  supplied  with  rugs,  food,  and  books,  which  might 
be  read  while  sitting  close  to  the  largest  air-hole,  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  might  have  passed  a  very  tolerable  day,  had  it 
not  been  for  his  great  anxiety.  Voices  and  footsteps  he 
could  indeed  distinguish  in  his  hiding-place,  but  the  con- 
fused babel  only  made  him  more  wretched.  He  longed  to 
come  forth  and  see  how  matters  were  going,  longed  to 
learn  the  fate  of  poor  Hugo.  He  heard  the  sound  of  the 
search-party  ransacking  every  corner  of  the  house,  heard 
steps  going  up  and  down  the  little  staircase,  and  men 
questioning  each  other  as  to  the  possibility  of  sliding- 
panels,  within  a  few  yards  of  his  invisible  door.  But  no 


168  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

one  had  found  him:  and  after  that  came  a  long,  quiet  in- 
terval, when,  although  he  strained  every  nerve  to  listen, 
he  could  make  out  nothing,  save  that  some  sort  of  con- 
clave must  be  proceeding  in  the  hall.  After  a  time  there 
were  sounds  as  of  hurried  dispersion  ;  the  servants  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen,  and  old  nurse  came  up  the  gallery 
stairs  with  little  Evelyn,  who  was  crying. 

"  Don't  fret,  child,"  he  heard  her  say.  "  He  is  a  brave 
lad,  and  you  should  be  proud  of  him." 

Then  they  passed  on  to  the  nursery,  and  once  more 
there  was  silence.  "What  could  have  happened?  Hugo 
had  kept  his  promise,  that  was  evident;  but  what  had  they 
done  to  him  ? 

Again  a  step  on  the  staircase,  and  again  the  closing  of 
the  door  behind  some  one  who  crept  up  very  slowly,  and 
went  softly  into  the  gallery.  He  heard  a  long,  sobbing 
sigh,  but  could  not  tell  whom  it  came  from,  though  he  fan- 
cied that  the  step  was  like  Joyce's. 

Sir  Peregrine,  meanwhile,  having  done  his  best  to  talk 
Randolph  into  a  better  temper,  and  having  signally  failed, 
thought  that  a  good  dinner  was  the  least  that  the  house- 
hold could  afford  him  for  all  the  trouble  he  had  taken  on 
this  hot  summer  day.  And  accordingly  every  one  was  has- 
tening to  the  kitchen  and  the  buttery,  and  doing  the  best 
that  could  be  done  to  furnish  an  unexpected  meal  for  a 
dozen  hungry  men.  In  the  confusion,  Joyce  stole  away  by 
herself  to  the  gallery,  and  crouched  down  in  a  shady  cor- 
ner, where  she  could  watch  the  door  of  the  north  parlor 
without  being  herself  seen.  After  a  time  the  constable 
and  the  two  men  who  had  gone  in  with  Hugo  returned  to 
the  hall.  One  of  them  bore  the  musician's  clothes  which 
Hugo  had  worn  as  a  disguise.  The  chief  constable  locked 
the  door  behind  him,  and  pocketed  the  key,  then  stepped 
up  to  Sir  Peregrine. 

"  The  young  gentleman  has  revived,  sir,  and  has  donned 
his  own  riding-suit,  but  I  doubt  whether  he  be  fit  to  travel 
to  Bishop-Stortford  to-night." 

"  Fit !  nonsense.  Confound  your  scruples,  I  tell  you  he 
shall  be  fit !"  interposed  Randolph.  "  I'll  soon  make  him 
fit." 

He  rose  as  though  meditating  an  immediate  visit  to  the 
prisoner,  but  the  constable  made  no  sign  of  yielding  the 
key,  and  Sir  Peregrine  interposed. 

"  Dinner  first,  my  boy,  dinner  first,  to  sweeten  your 
tongue  and  your  temper.  Ah!  here  comes  a  chine  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  BAYS.  169 

beef  in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Come,  let  us  fall  to,  and 
leave  yon  poor  fellow  to  digest  the  leathering  you  gave 
him.  Come  on,  come  on,  I'll  do  the  carving,  since  your 
arm  may  be  is  a  bit  weary." 

In  the  gallery  Joyce  clinched  her  hands  fiercely  as  the 
laughter  evoked  by  this  remark  rose  to  her.  Then  a 
sudden  thought  occurred  to  her.  She  stole  softly  down- 
stairs once  more,  ran  to  the  kitchen,  and  snatched  up  a 
freshly  baked  manchet,  then  to  the  battery,  where  she 
filled  a  cup  with  sack,  and  creeping  out  unperceived  by 
the  back  door,  she  stole  along  at  the  back  of  the  house  till 
she  came  to  the  window  of  the  \vithdrawing-room,  which 
opened  down  to  the  ground.  All  was  very  quiet  there. 

There  were  two  doors  to  the  withdraw  ing-room.  One 
opened  at  the  foot  of  the  great  oak  staircase,  and  near  to 
the  hall,  the  other  door,  facing  the  window,  led  to  the 
north  parlor.  It  was  just  possible  that  the  constable  might 
not  have  noticed  this,  and  might  have  left  it  unlocked.  It 
was  a  double  door.  She  opened  the  one  on  the  withdraw- 
ing-room  side,  set  down  her  burden,  and  listened  for  a  mo- 
ment breathlessly.  Hugo  was  certainly  alone.  She  softly 
turned  the  handle  of  the  second  door,  and  found  that  it 
yielded.  She  opened  it  a  very  little  way,  and  called  him, 
scarcely  above  her  breath. 

"Cousin  Hugo!  are  you  there?" 

He  staggered  forward,  hardly  able  to  believe  his  own 
ears.  Yet  surely  it  was  Joyce  who  had  spoken  to  him  ! 

He  flung  back  the  door  impatiently.  Yes,  there  she 
stood,  with  the  cup  of  wine  and  the  manchet  of  bread  in 
her  hands,  and  her  sweet  eyes  lifted  to  his. 

"You — you  here!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Hush !"  she  said,  warningly.  "  Not  one  word  till  you 
have  taken  these.  They  say  you  are  to  be  carried  as  far  as 
Bishop-Stortford  this  night,  and  you  so  weary  already." 

He  let  her  draw  up  a  chair  for  him,  and  passively  took 
the  bread  and  wine,  which,  indeed,  he  stood  in  great  need 
of.  Joyce  stole  noiselessly  to  the  locked  door  leading 
from  the  north  parlor  to  the  hall.  Looking  through  the 
key-hole  she  could  see  the  long  table  laden  with  good  cheer, 
and  the  twelve  strangers  sitting  round  it,  while  her  mother 
sat  in  the  chair  by  the  hearth,  with  Kobina  and  the  three 
elder  girls  standing  beside  her. 

"  They  have  but  just  begun  their  dinner.  I  shall  have 
time  to  fetch  you  more,"  she  said,  returning  to  Hugo. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  could  not  eat  another  morsel.     Yet, 


170  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

if  indeed  there  is  time  stay  with  me,  sweet  cousin  ;  let  me 
at  least  bid  you  farewell.  "We  are  not  like  to  see  each 
other  again." 

"  Do  not  say  that,"  she  faltered,  trying  to  keep  back  her 
tears. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  fixedly — looked  at  her  as 
one  who  looks  at  a  picture  which  he  would  fain  carry  in 
his  mind  to  his  dying  day.  The  blue  eyes  with  just  that 
mingling  of  love  and  pain  in  them,  the  sweet  mouth  a  little 
tremulous,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  the  rounded 
cheeks,  the  sunny  brown  curls  somewhat  disordered. 

He  glanced  round  the  room  and  shuddered  involuntarily, 
remembering  his  midnight  search.  The  old  ancestor  in 
the  corner  still  pointed  downward  with  his  long  taper 
hand,  the  eyes  of  the  other  pictures  still  seemed  to  follow 
him  reproachfully.  "  You  played  the  spy,"  they  seemed  to 
say.  "  You,  in  your  kinsman's  house,  stole  like  a  thief  at 
dead  of  night.  For  shame  !  For  shame  I" 

"  Joyce !"  he  said,  as  if  appealing  against  the  verdict  of 
the  pictures — "  Joyce,  say  once  more  that  you  forgive  me 
— say  once  more  that  you  do  not  hate  me  I" 

"  In  truth,"  she  sobbed,  "  you  have  more  than  repaid  all 
the  injury,  you  have  wiped  it  out  forever." 

"  Say,  then,  that  you  do  not  hate  me." 

"  Hate  you !"  she  sobbed.     "  How  could  I  ?" 

"Ah,  more  than  that!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  passionate 
voice  ;  "  Joyce,  Joyce — it  is  your  love  I  want — your  love  ! 
Yet  I  have  ruined  your  home — I  dare  not  ask  it — I  can 
not.  But,  Joyce,  I  love  you — love  you — love  yon  !  Wild 
horses  shall  tear  me  ere  I  breathe  one  word  to  hurt  your 
father." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  just  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

"God  bless  you  for  that !"  he  cried.  "You  pardon  me 
by  that  kiss,  you  say  you  trust  me !" 

"  Ay,"  she  whispered  softly.     "Ay,  and  love  you." 

"  Say  it  again  !"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  her  toward  him. 
"  Say  it  once  more,  and  I  will  be  strong  to  meet  death  and 
torture  !" 

She  flushed  rosy  red,  but  repeated  the  words  just  above 
her  breath. 

"  I  love  you,  my  brave  knight — I  love  you." 

"  Ah,  not  brave,"  he  sighed  ;  "  but  going  to  be,  in  the 
strength  of  your  love,  my  heart !  my  queen !  my  help- 
er !" 

Poor  children  !  their  bliss  was  but  short-lived.     All  too 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  171 

soon  Hugo's  love  warned  him  of   the  danger  which  Joyce 
incurred  by  lingering. 

"  No  more  of  this,"  he  said,  gently.  "  My  dear  one,  you 
must  not  stay.  I  risk  your  name — your  safety,  Eandolph 
stands  at  nothing.  One  last  kiss — then  to  prison  with  a 
strong  heart.  My  own,  my  life,  God  bless  you  !" 

"  Make  me  one  promise  ere  we  part,"  she  said.  "  Prom- 
ise that  you  will  ever  trust  my  father.  Promise  that  you 
will  come  back  to  him  when  you  are  free." 

"Ay,"  he  said,  smiling,  but  very  sadly.  "I  promise, 
when  I  am  free." 

Hand  in  hand  they  crossed  the  room  to  the  double  door, 
then,  once  more  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  kissing 
her  again  and  again.  No  words  now,  for  they  were  both 
of  them  past  speaking.  Their  parting  was  a  silent 
one.  Very  gently  he  put  her  from  him,  watched  her  cross 
the  room  and  pass  out  the  window,  then  turned  back  to 
his  prison,  closing  behind  him  the  doors  which  had  proved 
for  him  the  very  portals  of  hope. 

Before  long  the  other  door  was  unlocked,  and  the  chief 
constable  entered. 

"  You  must  follow  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  The  horses  are  in 
readiness.  I  am  sorry  I  can't  get  permission  to  fetch  you 
any  victuals,  but  your  guardian  will  not  permit  it." 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  need  of  nothing,"  said  Hugo,  com- 
posedly. 

The  constable  looked  at  him  in  amaze.  Was  this  the 
same  man  whom  he  had  borne  into  the  parlor  but  an  hour 
before  ?  And  in  fact  the  whole  household — the  whole 
household,  at  least,  with  one  exception — shared  in  the 
amaze.  Had  Hugo  doffed  his  old  nature  with  his  musi- 
cian's garb  and  donned  a  new  character  with  a  crimson 
doublet  ?  They  had  looked  to  see  him  pale,  cowed,  scarcely 
able  to  walk — and  behold,  here  he  was  bearing  himself 
with  a  dignity  which  was  altogether  foreign  to  him, 
moving  slowly,  indeed,  and  not  without  difficulty,  but  bear- 
ing his  head  high,  as  though  he  were  the  possessor  of  some 
new  and  unknown  strength.  His  dreamy  gray  eyes  shone 
with  a  light  that  was  strangely  incomprehensible  to  all  the 
spectators.  His  6ld  expression  of  easy  indifference  had 
given  place  to  an  air  that  seemed  almost  triumphant.  His 
pale  face  was  slightly  flushed.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
it  all  ?  Was  it  thus  that  such  as  Hugo  went  to  what  would 
almost  inevitably  prove  a  lifelong  imprisonment  ?  Was  it 
thus  that  he  bade  farewell  to  a  life  which  might  have  been 


172  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

full  of  all  things  which  men  most  prize  ?  Was  it  thus  that 
he  turned  his  back  on  court  favor,  on  pleasure,  on  freedom 
itself  ? 

Randolph  watched  him  curiously  as  he  walked  down  the 
hall  to  the  table  in  the  centre,  where  one  of  the  constables 
was  waiting  for  him  with  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  With  a 
touch  of  his  old  philosophic  calm  he  held  out  his  hands 
passively  and  allowed  the  irons  to  be  placed  on  his  wrists 
without  a  word.  It  was  Mrs.  Wharncliife  who  interceded 
for  him. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  turning  to  Sir  Peregrine,  "  surely  you 
may  spare  him  this  indignity.  Surely  you  may  trust  him." 

"  Far  from  it !"  broke  in  Randolph,  with  a  bitter  laugh, 
"  I  would  trust  him  with  naught.  These  handcuffs  were 
meant  for  }rour  husband,  madame,  and  my  brother  has 
donned  them  of  his  own  accord.  I  am  not  to  blame." 

Hugo  glanced  wistfully  across  to  the  little  group  by  the 
hearth.  Joyce  had  half  hidden  herself  behind  Betty  and 
Damaris,  but  for  one  instant  their  eyes  met. 

Just  that  one  mute  farewell — he  dared  not  risk  a  second, 
lest  Randolph  should  mark  it.  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Wharn- 
cliffe  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  quickly,  "  I  thank  you  for  your  hos- 
pitality and  your  kindness,  and  I  pray  your  forgiveness — 
for  all." 

He  could  not  speak  of  what  was  most  at  his  heart,  but 
he  repeated  again  in  an  undertone,  and  very  fervently, 
"  Your  forgiveness  for  all — when  you  know  all." 

To  find  words  in  which  to  answer  him  was  almost  as  dif- 
ficult for  her.  How  could  she  thank  him  with  all  those 
hostile  ears  listening?  To  do  so.  would  but  increase  his 
difficulties.  All  she  could  do  was  by  look  and  touch  to 
convey  to  him  her  deep  gratitude. 

"  Farewell,"  she  said,  her  voice  quivering  a  little,  "  Fare- 
well, cousin,  and  Gk>d  bless  you." 

He  glanced  swiftly  round  the  hall,  up  to  the  gallery 
where  he  had  lived  through  so  much,  and  where  from  the 
background  the  calm-faced  nun  looked  down  upon  him  ; 
round  to  the  picture  of  the  man  struggling  in  the  waves, 
his  constant  heart  dreading  no  danger  ;  then  up  to  his  own 
picture  as  a  little  innocent  child,  free  from  all  penalty  of 
error,  his  hands  toying  with  a  spaniel,  and  little  deeming 
that  one  day  they  should  wear  shameful  fetters. 

In  the  meantime  Sir  Peregrine  and  Randolph  had  bade 
farewell  to  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  and  the  chief  constable  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  173 

drawn  up  his  men  around  the  prisoner  in  impressive  order. 
Another  moment,  and  he  gave  the  order  to  march  out  to 
the  great  door  where  the  horses  were  awaiting  them. 
Hugo  found  his  own  chestnut  there  ;  it  had  been  brought 
by  one  of  the  grooms  from  Longbridge  Hall,  where  it  had 
been  quartered  for  some  weeks.  The  sight  gave  him 
pleasure  ;  it  was  something  to  have  his  favorite,  even  for 
what  would  in  all  probability  prove  his  last  ride. 

Scarcely  was  he  mounted  when  the  nurse  came  out  has- 
tily, bearing  his  lute-case. 

"  You  have  left  this,  sir,"  she  said. 

Amid  some  laughter  one  of  the  constables  fastened  it  to 
the  saddle,  making  some  rough  joke  about  the  musician 
taking  his  music  with  him  to  jail.  But  Hugo  was  proof 
against  jokes,  for  the  nurse  had  whispered  to  him  that  he 
should  search  inside,  and  he  had  some  hope  that  Joyce 
might  have  left  him  a  message  in  it. 

And  now  indeed  the  last  moment  had  come,  the  house- 
hold was  gathered  together  at  the  door  to  watch  their  de- 
parture. Many  of  the  eyes  that  watched  him  were  dim 
with  tears  ;  in  all  he  could  read  gratitude,  in  some  he 
could  read  love. 

Joyce  clung  to  her  mother,  but  never  took  her  eyes  off 
Hugo — that  upright  figure  on  the  chestnut  horse,  the 
figure  in  crimson  doublet  and  Spanish  sombrero,  with  the 
strange,  new  dignity  of  expression,  and  the  eyes  bright 
with  noble,  self-sacrificing  love — with  love  for  her. 

And  it  was  naught  to  her  that  Sir  Peregrine  quarreled 
with  his  servants,  and  that  Randolph  swore  at  every  one 
who  approached  him.  She  heeded  only  one  thing  in  all 
the  confusion.  Just  at  the  last  she  heard  her  lover's  voice 
pleading  rather  anxiously  with  one  of  the  constables. 

"  I  can  manage  him,  spite  of  the  irons, '  he  said  ;  "  he 
will  go  better  for  me  than  for  you  with  free  hands." 

*'I  can  not  help  it,  sir,  I  must  have  the  reins,"  said  the 
man.  And  the  prisoner,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
made  them  over  to  him. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?"  said  Sir  Peregrine. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  replied  the  chief  constable.  "  We  will  follow 
your  honor." 

Hugo  bowed  a  farewell  to  the  group  at  the  door,  glanced 
once  again  at  Joyce,  smiled  faintly,  and  was  borne  away. 

The  members  of  the  household  did  not  leave  the  doer 
till  the  horsemen  were  out  of  sight;  then  they  quietly  dis- 
persed, for  indeed  none  of  them  felt  as  though  they  could 


174  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

speak.  A  great  danger  had  been  averted  from  their  home; 
the  master  was,  for  the  present,  at  any  rate,  safe.  But  to 
save  him  a  young  life  had  been  sacrificed. 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

Lift  up  to  Him  thy  heavie  clouded  eyne, 

That  thou  His  soveraine  bountie  mayst  behold, 

And  read,  through  love,  His  mercies  manifold. 

SPENSER. 

I  SCARCE  know  whether  to  write  more  of  this  journal  or  to 
tie  these  few  sheets  together  and  leave  them  as  they  are. 
So  much  has  happened  that  will  not  bear  putting  into 
words,  and  so  much  that  may  not  with  safety  be  preserved 
in  writing.  For  since  that  last  entry  all  things  are 
changed.  Karl  is  no  more  the  wandering  minstrel,  but 
our  own  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe;  but  how  and  when 
and  why  he  revealed  it  to  us  I  dare  not  here  set  down,  lest 
perchance  these  papers  fall  into  unfriendly  hands.  This 
much,  however,  all  the  world  knows,  and  therefore  I  can 
do  no  wrong  by  putting  it  in  my  journal. 

While  we  were  living  on  here  so  quietly,  one  Keeling,  a 
salter  in  London,  brought  word  to  Sir  Leolyn  Jenkyns, 
principal  secretary  of  state,  that  there  was  a  conspiracy 
abroad  to  kill  the  king.  Sir  Leolyn,  not  willing  to  hearken 
to  what  was  but  sworn  to  by  one  man,  dismissed  him  until 
he  could  bring  a  second  witness  to  confirm  his  words; 
whereupon  he  compelled  his  younger  brother,  much  against 
his  will,  to  get  admitted  to  some  society  where  they  say  the 
talk  was  treasonable,  and  then,  on  the  fourteenth  day  of 
this  month  of  June,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1683,  both  the 
Keeling  brothers  gave  evidence  on  oath  in  confirmation  of 
the  plot,  and  the  news  spread  through  the  country  like 
wildfire.  They  say  the  conspirators  have  been  meeting  in 
many 'places  in  London,  but  most  chiefly  at  the  house  of 
one  Colonel  Rumsey,  in  Soho  Square,  and  in  Mr.  West's 
chambers  in  the  Temple.  Also  at  the  sign  of  the  Miter,  in 
Aldgate;  the  Horse-Shoe,  Tower  Hill;  the  King's  Head, 
Atheist  Alley;  the  Salutation  and  the  George,  Lombard 
Street,  and  the  Green  Dragon,  Snow  Hill.  But,  though 
folks  seem  to  know  the  names  of  all  the  meeting-places, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  175 

every  one  has  a  different  story  about  the  plot  itself.  Some 
say  that  the  king  and  the  duke  were  to  have  been  murdered 
on  their  way  from  Newmarket — that  was  the  first  story  we 
heard,  and  that  they  escaped  only  by  the  fire  at  Newmarket 
causing  the  king  to  go  back  to  London  sooner  than  his 
wont.  But  this  should  have  been  in  the  spring.  Others 
talk  of  a  great  insurrection  th at  was  to  have  been  on  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day,  in  November  next.  But  the  strange  part 
is  that  they  can  name  no  great  leaders  who  were  to  head 
this  great  insurrection. 

The  story  that  seems  now  to  be  credited  by  most  is  that 
which  is  given  by  two  of  the  conspirators,  who,  thinking  to 
save  themselves  by  confession,  have  not  fled  the  country 
like  all  other  suspected  people,  but  have  delivered  them- 
selves up  of  free  will.  My  father  thinks  the  tale  reads 
strangely;  that  it  is  most  probably  in  some  measure  a  sham 
plot  concerted  by  these  two,  with  some  admixture  of  truth, 
but  with  many  false  details. 

This  is  the  outline  of  the  story  told  by  Mr.  West  and 
Colonel  Rumsey.  They  say  that  Mr.  Bumbold,  the  malt- 
ster, who  owns  the  Bye-House  Farm  in  Hertfordshire,  had 
offered  them  the  use  of  his  house,  which  is  strong  and 
well-placed.  Here  forty  men  were  to  be  gathered;  the  nar- 
row road  was  to  be  blocked  by  the  upsetting  of  a  cart, 
and  the  king's  coach  being  thus  brought  to  a  standstill, 
the  armed  men  were  to  attack  and  murder  him  and  the 
Duke  of  York,  while  a  second  division  of  men  attacked  the 
guards,  and  then,  retiring,  were  to  defend  the  house  and 
moat  till  night  enabled  them  to  escape.  It  is  passing 
strange,  though,  that  they  could  but  name  eight  of  all  the 
forty  men  who  were  to  assemble  at  the  Bye- House,  and 
they  seem  to  know  naught  of  any  supply  of  aims  or  horses; 
nor  could  they  name  one  single  "Whig  leader  who  had 
aught  to  do  with  this  scheme.  However,  they  do  declare 
that  they  heard  of  conferences  held  by  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth  and  other  lords,  with  some  from  Scotland,  who 
planned  a  general  rising,  and  spoke  of  seizing  the  king's 
guards.  How  far  all  this  story  is  true  no  one  can  ever 
know. 

Perchance  there  may  have  been  some  who  deemed  that 
even  so  treacherous  a  murder  is  justified  by  the  present 
state  of  affairs,  though  one  would  fain  believe  it  all  a  lie. 
But,  true  or  false,  it  matters  not — it  is  currently  believed, 
and  every  Whig  is  in  danger ;  every  one  who  has  shown 
disapproval  of  the  king's  Government,  every  one  who 


176  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

sided  in  former  times  with  the  Commonwealth  party,  risks 
being  apprehended.  As  to  the  leading  Whigs,  we  have 
not  yet  heard  their  fate,  but  my  father  told  us  that  he 
doubted  not  the  king  would  be  but  too  thankful  for  any 
excuse  to  lay  hands  on  them,  and  that  without  fail  they 
would  be  included  among  the  Eye-House  conspirators.  In 
especial  he  mentioned  Colonel  Sidney,  who,  he  says,  is  a 
great  friend  to  Hugo,  the  bravest  and  best  of  men,  but, 
unfortunately  for  him,  a  well-known  republican. 

How  hard  and  wearisome  it  has  been  to  write  all  these 
public  tidings,  these  hateful  versions  of  plots  and  risings, 
and  murders  and  treacheries,  when  all  the  while  these  said 
plots  and  revelations  have  made  such  chaos  of  our  home- 
life  ! 

For  indeed,  since  that  terrible  18th  of  June,  all  has  been 
chaos.  I  hardly  dare  to  think  of  it  yet,  much  less  to  write 
of  all  that  slow  agony.  And  yet  it  was  that  same  18th  of 
June  which  brought  me  the  best  thing  in  all  the  world — a 
good  man's  love.  For  it  was  then — after  they  had  used 
him  so  cruelly — then,  when  he  was  going  to  prison  for  the 
sake  of  shielding  my  father,  that  Hugo  told  me  he  loved 
me.  It  seems  passing  strange  that  all  this  while,  dream- 
ing of  Juliet  and  Imogen  and  many  another,  I  had  yet 
never  got  any  idea  of  love  at  all.  It  was  Hugo  who 
opened  that  new  world  for  me,  it  was  Hugo  who  gave  me 
my  first  glimpse  at  that  wonderful,  wonderful  joy — and  no 
other  man  on  earth  could  ever  have  done  it ;  for  only  he, 
my  brave  knight,  had  the  key  to  fit  my  lock. 

Surely  it  was  God  who  made  us  for  each  other.  Were  it 
not  for  that  thought  I  could  hardly  think  he  ought  to  love 
me.  There  are  so  many  more  good,  more  clever,  more 
beautiful,  and  more  in  his  own  world.  So  many,  too,  who 
seem  to  need  such  a  great  gift  more  than  I  do,  with  my 
father  and  mother,  and  this  dear  Mondisfield.  But  God 
has  given  us  to  each  other,  and  there  is  naught  for  me  to 
do,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but  to  thank  Him  for  His  great 
gift,  and  to  strive  to  grow  more  worthy  of  my  own  true 
love. 

We 'all  stood  at  the  door  to  watch  them  go.  Hugo  walked 
out  of  the  hall  with  far  more  ease  than  we  looked  for,  con- 
sidering his  long  illness.  As  to  the  fetters,  he  seemed  not 
to  heed  the  shame  of  them,  but  bore  his  head  high,  as  he 
passed  out  surrounded  by  the  constables.  In  his  face  pain 
was  blended  with  a  strange  look  of  triumph,  and  wlu-u  ho 
was  mounted  on  his  beautiful  chestnut,  he  looked,  oh,  so 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  177 

far  the  noblest  of  all  the  troop  !  Spite  of  those  cruel  hand- 
cuffs, which  would  scarce  permit  him  to  stroke  the  neck  of 
his  favorite  steed,  he  seemed  like  the  prince  of  the  com- 
pany, the  others  showing  beside  him  like  ruffians.  Then, 
after  much  quarreling  and  swearing  from  Sir  Peregrine 
and  that  other,  whom  I  cannot  yet  name,  or  scarce  trust 
myself  to  think  on,  the  word  was  given  for  the  start. 

Hugo's  eyes  looked  into  mine  for  the  last  time — and  they 
seemed  to  say,  "  Courage  even  for  this  !  Love  to  all  eter- 
nity !"  Then  the  constable  led  off  his  horse  and  the  rest 
of  the  men  fell  in  behind,  two  and  two,  and  thus  the  caval- 
cade passed  down  the  drive  across  the  bridge,  and  so 
through  the  park  until  the  bend  in  the  road  hid  them  from 
us.  And  I  hated  the  trees  that  came  betwixt  us,  and  I 
hated  the  space  which  divided  us,  and  I  hated,  with  a  blind, 
burning,  raging  hatred,  the  cause  of  all  this  misery,  who 
must  here  be  nameless. 

What  became  of  the  others  I  do  not  know,  but  by  and 
by  I  found  that  I  was  left  alone  with  my  mother,  who  all 
the  time  had  held  my  hand  in  hers.  She  looked  in  my 
face,  but  I  dared  not  meet  her  look,  because  of  that  rage 
which  blazed  within  my  heart,  and  must  show  in  my  eyes. 
But  mothers  know  without  seeing,  and  it  was  for  no  use. 
She  put  her  arm  round  me,  and,  still  keeping  my  right 
hand  fast  in  hers,  led  me  up  to  her  bed  chamber.  Then 
she  signed  to  me  to  lie  down  and  rest  on  her  bed,  which 
was  just  what  I  longed  to  do,  only  that  with  the  rest  there 
came  too  the  thought  that  all  was  over — quite  over — and 
with  that  a  great  fit  of  weeping  which  I  could  not  check. 
And  then  all  my  evil  thoughts,  my  hatred  to  that  other, 
rushed  into  words,  and  I  raved  and  stormed  more  like  a 
foolish  child  than  a  woman — the  woman  whom  Hugo 
loves.  Every  moment  I  thought  my  mother  would  rebuke 
me,  bnt  for  some  time  she  did  not  speak.  At  last  laying 
her  hand  on  my  forehead,  she  said,  very  quietly: 

"  Joyce,  you  are  speaking  of  one  whom  Hugo  loves  ;  and, 
not  only  that,  but  of  one  whom  the  Lord  Himself  loves." 

"  How  can  he  love  such  a  brute — such  a  brute  ?''  I  cried, 
almost  angry  to  think  it  could  be. 

But  my  mother  said  nothing,  and  in  the  silence  a  sort  of 
shame  came  over  me  to  think  of  the  words  I  had  said. 
Presently  my  mother  spoke  again  ;  she  began  as  though  de- 
scribing a  picture,  I  knew  well  enough  whose  picture. 

"  A  young  man,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  low  voice — "  a 
young  man  just  of  age,  brought  up  in  what  for  his  station 


178  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

in  life  was  poverty,  and  even  privation.  This  Lad  been  in- 
curred by  his  father's  devotion  to  the  late  king,  whom  he 
had  served  faithfully,  and  in  whose  cause  he  had  suffered 
much.  But  the  young  man  cared  not  much  for  the  cause, 
neither  could  he  care  much  for  the  king  whom  he  had 
never  known.  He  grudged  the  lost  money  and  resented 
the  present  sufferings.  At  first  he  hoped  that  the  king's  son 
would  reward  the  family  for  their  past  devotion,  but  it  was 
not  so,  and  the  young  man  grew  bitter  and  hard,  and  the 
constant  hankering  after  money  and  the  constant  brooding 
over  the  injustice  eat  into  his  soul.  And  then,  while  he 
was  yet  young,  the  plague  came  and  swept  away  in  one  week 
all  that  made  his  home,  and  alone  he  was  thrown  upon  a 
world  full  of  the  worst  temptations.  This  man  had  a  kins- 
man whom  he  hated — a  kinsman  who  was  richer  than  he, 
and  whose  property  had  not  been  lost,  for  he  had  been  on 
the  winning  side.  This  made  the  young  man  more 
bitter  still,  and  seemed  to  him  a  fresh  injustice.  He  longed 
to  wrest  the  property  from  his  kinsman.  All  this  time  he 
had  been  surrounded  by  the  very  worst  people,  and  in  all 
his  life  there  had  been  but  one  being  to  love  him  ;  that 
was  a  little  child,  whom  he  too  loved  in  his  rough  way.  But 
the  bad  craving  after  the  money  and  the  kinsman's 
property  grew  faster  than  his  love  for  the  younger  brother, 
till  at  last  it  overshadowed  it,  and,  with  the  hope  of  at  last 
gaining  the  property,  he  did  his  brother  a  cruel  wrong." 

My  mother  paused.  She  could  not  go  on  with  the  story, 
for  who  knows  how  it  is  to  end  ?  But  somehow  her  tale 
had  softened  that  dreadful,  raging  anger  in  my  heart;  I  be- 
gan to  feel  very  sorry  for  that  other — that  other  whom 
Hugo  loves. 

Then  my  mother  knelt  by  the  bed  and  prayed.  I  can 
not  remember  what  she  said,  but  I  know  it  brought  to  my 
mind  the  prayer  of  Jairus  :  "  My  little  daughter  lieth  at 
the  point  of  death  ;  I  pray  thee,  come  and  lay  thy  hands 
on  her,  that  she  may  be  healed,  and  she  shall  live." 

And  I  saw,  as  I  had  never  seen  before,  that  hatred  was 
death  and  that  love  was  life;  and  I  hoped  that  Jesus  would 
lay  His  hands  on  me  and  heal  me. 

And  then  all  things  grew  very  still,  and  my  mother's 
voice  seemed  to  go  further  and  further  away  into  a  dreamy 
distance,  and  I  fell  asleep. 

It  was  evening  when  I  woke.  Through  the  open  window 
I  could  hear  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  as  they  flew  home  to 
their  nests  in  the  elm-trees;  and,  sitting  up  in  bed,  still 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  179 

somewhat  stiff  and  weary,  I  could  see  a  long,  wavering  line 
of  black  against  the  evening  sky.  How  they  fluttered  those 
huge  wings,  and  how  contentedly  they  cawed !  I  had  al- 
ways liked  the  rooks,  but  never  so  well  as  to-night.  And, 
remembering  how  God  cared  even  for  birds,  I  could  bear 
to  remember,  too,  how  Hugo  was  still  on  his  weary  journey, 
worn  out  and  exhausted  perhaps,  but  still  "cared  for." 

With  a  great  longing  to  be  out  of  doors,  I  put  back  the 
curtains,  which  my  mother  had  drawn,  and,  stealing  down- 
stairs, went  out  through  the  withdrawing-room  window, 
and  so  through  the  pleasance  to  the  apple-walk.  It  was 
like  coming  out  of  doors,  after  an  illness — in  part  because 
my  knees  felt  odd  and  shaky,  but  chiefly  because  all  the 
world  seemed  so  beautiful,  and  so  new,  and  so  full  of  things 
one  had  never  greatly  thought  of  before.  Most  of  the 
birds  were  abed  and  asleep,  but  the  rooks  still  cawed,  and 
a  thrush  sung  its  evening  lay  among  the  trees  at  the  fur- 
ther side  of  the  nioat.  I  sat  down  on  the  grassy,  sloping 
bank  and  listened  to  it ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  grass 
were  softer  and  greener,  and  the  water  clearer,  and  the  sun- 
set sky  ruddier  than  ever  before.  All  the  world  seemed 
that  night  to  speak  of  God,  to  cry  out  "  He  is  here  !  He 
is  here !  "  and  I  knew  that  His  Spirit  was  in  my  heart  too 
— and  in  Hugo's. 

Sitting  there  beside  the  moat,  my  mother  found  me,  and 
she  too  sat  down  arid  listened. 

Then,  when  the  thrush  had  ceased,  I  told  her  of  Hugo's 
love  to  me,  and  mine  to  him — all  which  she  knew  right 
well  before.  Yet,  for  all  that,  she  would  fain  have  had  me 
tell  her  with  rny  own  lips — and  it  was  better  so,  though  at 
first  it  was  hard.  Not  that  my  mother  said  one  word  of  re- 
buke. But  it  was  somehow  hard  to  put  our  story  into 
words,  and  I  knew  that  she  was  sorry  that  all  had  gone  as 
it  had.  She  would  fain  have  had  me  yet  a  child.  And, 
thinking  it  over,  I  see  that  it  was  natural.  For  she  knew 
well  what  I  only  begin  to  know — that  love  means  pain — 
and  she  would  fain  have  kept  me  for  years  to  come  con- 
tent with  the  home-life. 

One  word  she  left  fall,  too,  about  this  past  month. 

"  I  have  thought  of  you  as  a  child,  little  daughter,"  she 
said,  "  and  now  I  blame  myself  for  it.  I  blame  neither 
you  nor  Hugo,  but  I  blame  myself." 

She  thought,  I  know,  of  the  long  afternoons  in  the 
gallery,  when  Evelyn  and  I  had  amused  him.  But,  then, 


180  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

how  could  she  know  that  he  was  aught  but  Karl  the  min- 
strel, or  that  we  should  love  each  other  ? 

And  we  agreed  that  it  were  best  not  to  speak  of  this 
even  to  my  sisters,  as  yet.  "  Only,"  said  my  mother,  with 
such  a  beautiful  smile  on  her  face,  "  when  you  want  to 
talk,  come  to  me,  little  Joyce." 

And  then,  blushing  slightly,  she  told  me  a  little — a  very 
little — about  the  time  when  she  and  my  father  had  first 
loved  each  other,  she  being  just  my  age.  And  they  were 
not  formally  plighted  to  each  other  for  some  years,  be- 
cause our  grandparents  thought  them  both  too  young. 
And  she  told  me  how  anxious  she  was  before  the  battle  of 
"Worcester,  and  of  how  my  father  was  wounded  there,  and 
she  heard  naught  of  him  for  weeks.  Then,  by  and  by, 
we  walked  back  to  the  house  together.  I  think  I  never 
knew  before  quite  what  my  mother  was.  Is  it  that  Hugo's 
love  has  opened  my  eyes  to  all  other  love  too  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A.    CONTEST    OF    WILLS. 

He  that  endures  for  what  his  conscience  knows 

Not  to  be  ill,  doth  from  a  patience  high 

Look  only  on  the  cause  whereto  he  owes 

Those  sufferings — not  on  his  miseries. 

The  more  he  endures,  the  more  his  glory  grows, 

Which  never  grows  from  imbecility. 

Only  the  best  composed  and  worthiest  hearts 

God  sets  to  act  the  hardest  constantest  parts. 

S.  SAMUEL. 

THE  cavalcade  did  not  pass  through  the  village  of  Mon- 
disfield.  Hugo  watched  anxiously  to  see  whether  they 
should  take  the  turning  to  the  village  at  the  cross-roads. 
They  paused  for  a  minute,  but  only  to  bid  farewell  to  Sir 
Peregrine,  who  branched  off  there  with  his  two  serving 
men,  returning  to  Longbridge  Hall.  He  bade  the  prison- 
er think  better  of  his  resolution  before  nightfall,  good-na- 
turedly reminding  him  that  he  might  even  yet  ride  into 
London  as  a  free  man. 

*'  Think  better  of  it,  for  your  brother's  sake,"  he  repeated. 
"  'Tis  but  a  sorry  day's  ^  ork  for  him  to  ride  back  with 
you  in  the  stead  of  that  confounded  colonel." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  181 

"  I  have  made  my  choice,  sir,  and  must  abide  by  it," 
said  Hugo,  gravely. 

He  saw  Randolph's  brow  darken  ominously  at  his  words, 
and  felt  a  curio  as  regret  as  he  saw  the  Suffolk  squire  ride 
away.  Things  had  indeed  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  Sir 
Peregrine  Blake  could  be  clung  to  as  a  sort  of  forlorn 
hope — a  protector !  The  order  of  the  little  company  was 
now  changed.  Randolph  motioned  to  the  second  constable 
to  drop  behind,  and  himself  rode  side  by  side  with  the 
prisoner,  talking  across  him  to  the  constable  who  held  his 
reins.  Hugo  was  oppressed  by  his  presence  ;  it  added  not 
a  little  to  the  discomforts  of  that  miserable  ride. 

And  now  they  began  to  push  on  quickly,  for  to  reach 
Bishop-Stortford  before  night  would  need  hard  riding.  On, 
past  wayside  cottages  with  thatched  roofs  and  creeper-laden 
walls  ;  on,  past  hay-makers  busy  with  their  rakes  and 
pitchforks  ;  on,  past  the  region  of  cultivation,  and  over  a 
vast  heathy  plain  with  no  tree  or  shrub  to  give  the  slight- 
est shade,  and  the  burning  midsummer  sun  beating  down 
upon  them  mercilessly. 

Randolph  watched  his  brother  very  narrowly.  When 
would  that  strange  look  of  triumph,  that  curious  dignity 
of  mien,  leave  him  ?  What  was  its  cause?  Did  it  indeed 
bode  the  ruin  of  all  his  hopes  ?  Did  it  indeed  bespeak  the 
end  of  his  influence  over  the  youth  ?  No,  that  he  could 
not  believe.  Could  the  work  of  a  lifetime  be  undone  in  so 
short  a  while  ?  It  was  impossible,  incredible  !  His  old 
tactics  would  succeed  at  length,  though  possibly  not  jusfc 
yet.  He  should  work  upon  the  sensitive  frame,  and  so  at 
last  regain  his  influence  over  the  rebel  spirit.  And  in  the 
long  run  it  would  prove  all  for  Hugo's  good.  Of  course 
it  was  for  his  good.  He  repeated  this  to  himself  again  and 
again,  pacifying  his  conscience. 

And  so,  though  the  sun  was  intolerable,  and  the  hard 
riding  wearisome  enough  to  the  whole  company,  he  wel- 
comed the  discomforts,  trusting  that  they  would  further 
his  own  ends.  The  heat,  which  was  turning  the  worthy 
constable's  skin  to  a  brilliant  copper-color,  which  was 
bringing  wreaths  of  foam  upon  the  necks  of  the  horses, 
this  would  tell  upon  Hugo — would  wear  him  out  as  nothing 
else  would.  Already  there  were  lines  of  pain  round  the 
sensitive  mouth.  Endurance  had  never  proved  one  of  his 
characteristics.  He  took  things  quietly,  but  succumbed 
very  soon.  Surely,  with  careful  treatment,  Randolph  could 
manage  to  bring  him  to  his  senses  before  they  reached 
London. 


182  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

And  presently,  sure  enough,  his  scrutiny  was  rewarded 
He  saw  traces  of  evident  exhaustion  setting  in.  Nor  indeed 
was  it  wonderful.  Hugo  had  gone  through  much  on  the 
previous  day,  had  slept  but  little,  had  tasted  no  food  tLat 
morning  save  the  bread  and  the  wine  which  Joyce  had 
brought  him,  and  had  suffered  unspeakable  things  both 
mentally  and  bodily.  Pain  dimmed  for  awhile  the  lover's 
rapture  which  had  hitherto  borne  him  up.  His  head 
drooped,  the  burning  flush  passed  from  his  face  and  left  it 
unnaturally  pale. 

"Bear  up,  sir/'  said  the  constable,  in  a  kindly  voice. 
"  We  are  nigh  upon  a  village  where  there  is  a  decent  inn. 
A  glass  of  home-brewed  will  make  you  another  man." 

Randolph  speedily  interposed,  howrever. 

"We  can  take  a  bait  there,  an  you  will,  both  for  men 
and  horses,"  he  said,  peremptorily.  "But  my  brother 
shall  not  be  cockered  up  as  though  he  wrere  a  prince.  He 
shall  feel  that  there  is  a  difference  betwixt  free  men  and 
prisoners." 

Hugo  did  not  speak,  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  quiv- 
ered. The  pain  and  the  weariness  and  the  intolerable 
thirst  were  bad  enough,  but  Randolph's  words  seemed  to 
cut  him  like  a  knife.  Worst  of  all,  he  knew  that  this 
starving  scheme  meant  that  more  pressure  was  to  be  put 
upon  him  to  reveal  what  he  knew  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe. 

The  constable  said  no  more,  and  they  rode  on,  leaving 
the  heathy  plain  behind,  and  passing  on  between  fields 
and  orchards,  until,  about  five  o'clock,  they  reached  the 
village  spoken  of,  and  halted  at  the  door  of  the  Green 
Man. 

All  save  the  prisoner  dismounted.  Randolph  went  into 
the  inn,  and  the  rest  followed,  leaving  only  one  man  with- 
out in  charge.  Had  Hugo  meditated  escape,  now  would 
have  been  his  time.  But  he  knew  that  escape  was  impos- 
sible, even  had  he  been  in  a  state  to  attempt  it.  And  as  it 
wras,  he  was  too  much  spent  to  dream  of  aught  but  obtain- 
ing such  brief  comfort  as  might  be  from  the  shade  of  the 
great  chestnut-tree  which  spread  half  across  the  village 
street,  *and  from  the  momentary  respite  from  hard  riding. 

Randolph  had  judged  quite  rightly;  this  -enforced  wait- 
ing at  the  inn-door,  within  reach  of  the  refreshment  he 
needed  so  sorely,  did  make  him  realize  very  keenly  the  dif- 
ference between  free  men  and  prisoners.  Wearily  waiting, 
with  the  knowledge  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  miserable 
journey  must  be  resumed,  he  closed  his  eyes,  unmindful 
of  the  group  of  children  who  had  already  drawn  near  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  183 

stare  at  the  unwonted  spectacle  of  a  gentleman  with  lace 
cravat  and  plumed  beaver,  under  the  charge  of  mounted 
constables,  and  wearing  irons  on  his  wrists.  Their  com- 
ments did  not  in  the  least  disturb  him,  only  after  a  time 
he  became  aware  that  voices  were  whispering  around  him, 
and  he  caught  the  tantalizing  repetition  of  the  words 
"  thirst"  and  "  water."  Was  it  only  the  echo  of  his  own 
thoughts  ?  or  some  fiend  mocking  his  wants  ?  He  roused 
himself  from  the  half-faint,  half-drowsy  state  into  which 
he  had  fallen.  The  constable  was  a  few  paces  off  feeding 
the  horses,  but  the  voices  had  been  real,  not  imaginary. 
Close  beside  him. stood  two  rosy  village  children,  and 
raised  high  up,  as  high  as  their  little  chubby  arms  would 
admit,  was  a  brown  pitcher  full  of  water.  He  smiled. 

"  Is  it  for  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two,  shyly,  dropping  a 
courtesy  which  nearly  upset  the  pitcher.  But  the  horse 
was  high,  and  the  children  were  small,  and  Hugo's  fetters 
would  not  allow  him  to  reach  the  water,  not  even  though 
he  bent  low  down  on  the  horse's  neck,  and  not  even  though 
the  children  stood  on  their  tallest  tiptoe.  In  all  his  wretch- 
edness he  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  but  the  children, 
looking  at  the  white,  weary  face,  were  more  inclined  to 
cry.  At  this  supreme  moment  a  tall  loosely  made  lad 
slouched  forward;  it  was  the  village  innocent.  Muttering 
something  unintelligible,  he  took  the  pitcher  from  the  lit- 
tle ones,  and  with  a  smile  in  his  wandering  eyes,  which  for 
a  moment  made  the  foolish  face  almost  beautiful,  held  the 
water  to  Hugo's  lips.  To  his  parched  throat  it  seemed  that 
no  draugkt  had  ever  been  so  delicious,  while  the  kindness 
of  these  strangers  touched  him  deeply.  After  all,  the 
world  was  not  so  black  as  he  had  deemed  it.  Men  might 
be  cruel,  but  an  innocent  and  a  couple  of  children  had 
cared  for  him;  one  day  he  would  tell  that  story  to  Joyce. 
One  day,  when  he  had  kept  his  last  promise  and  gone  back 
to  Mondisfield.  Yet  how  could  that  ever  be  ?  How  could 
aught  but  lifelong  imprisonment  await  him  ?  An  agony  of 
realization  swept  over  him,  but  he  bravely  tried  to  turn 
to  other  thoughts.  And  if  not  here,  then  he  would  tell 
her  that  story — would  tell  her  all — all — in  that  city  which 
lay  at  the  end  of  the  pilgrim's  journey,  in  which  she  be- 
lieved so  implicitly  and  for  which  he  also  began  to  hope. 

At  that  moment  Randolph  emerged  from  the  door  of  the 
inn,  and  strolled  leisurely  toward  his  horse  ;  the  innocent, 
still  regarding  Hugo  with  all  his  eyes,  stood  in  the  way. 


184  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

"  Get. out,  you  d d  idiot  1"  he  exclaimed,pusbing  him 

roughly  away.  "  "What  do  you  mean  by  coming  so  near  ?" 

The  innocent,  with  an  indescribable  look  of  resentment, 
slunk  away,  the  children  took  to  their  heels  and  ran  for 
shelter  to  the  other  side  of  the  chestnut-tree,  as  though 
this  fine  gentleman  had  been  the  devil  himself. 

"  How  now,  Hugo  ?"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  mounted  his 
horse.  "  Tired  of  your  new  game  ?  art  willing  to  be  a 
free  man  once  more  ?" 

"  An  you  be  willing  to  make  me  one,"  said  Hugo, 
gravely.  "  My  freedom  lies  in  your  keeping,  not  in  my 
own." 

"  Fool  I  you  know  right  well  that  you  have  but  to  speak 
one  word,  and  those  gyves  are  off  your  wrists  in  a  twink- 
ling." 

"  And  that  word  I  will  never  speak." 

"  Ah,  well !  some  folk  love  to  pose  as  martyrs.  We 
shall  see,  we  shall  see  !  Newgate  will  make  you  tell 
another  tale,  my  fine  fellow." 

"  Will  it  be  Newgate !"  asked  Hugo,  startled  out  of  his 
reserve,  and  speaking  in  his  ordinary  tone.  Somehow  the 
name  of  the  jail  made  the  dim,  almost  dream-like,  future 
stand  out  with  a  hideous  reality.  Newgate  !  that  hell  upon 
earth!  Was  he  to  go  there  ?  He  had  at  least  hoped  for 
the  Tower,  the  ignominy  of  which  seemed  far  less  galling. 

"  Assuredly  it  will  be  Newgate,"  said  Randolph,  with 
great  composure.  "Bethink  yourself  what  it  will  be 
for  one  of  your  birth  and  breeding  to  be  herded  with 
thieves  and  murderers,  and  all  the  scum  of  the  city.  Don't 
blame  me  for  sending  you  there  ;  'tis  your  own  doing." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Hugo,  sadly.  "  It  is  my  own  do- 
ing." 

And  with  that  he  fell  into  deep  thought  and  spoke  no 
more,  leaving  Randolph  surprised  and  a  little  softened  by 
his  very  unexpected  reply.  The  elder  brother,  too,  fell  into 
a  reverie,  and  thus  they  went  on  their  way,  leaving  the  vil- 
lage behind  them — the  innocent  waving  a  last  farewell  to 
Hugo,  and  repeating  again  and  again,  in  his  shrill,  monot- 
onous Voice,  " God  'ild  you,  sir!  God  'ild you !" 

Three  more  hours  of  hard  riding  brought  them  near  to 
their  destination;  Hugo,  heavy-hearted  and  faint  with  pain 
and  weariness,  felt  a  gleam  of  comfort  as  he  caught  sight 
of  the  gables  and  chimneys  of  Bishop-Stortford,  and  the 
spire  of  St.  Michael's  Church.  The  curfew-bell  was  ring- 
ing as  they  drew  near  to  the  town,  ringing  in  the  close  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  185 

this  longest  day  in  his  whole  life.  In  the  sky  was  a  glory 
of  gold  and  crimson  and  floating  purple  cloudlets;  the 
whole  place  was  suffused  with  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  sun- 
set, and  the  lights  which  shone  here  and  there  in  the  win- 
dows seemed  primrose  pale  by  contrast.  The  arrival  of  the 
horsemen  caused  quite  a  commotion  in  the  quiet  little 
country  town.  The  women,  standing  with  their  knitting 
at  the  doors,  beckoned  to  others  within  the  houses  to  haste 
and  see  this  strange  sight.  A  group  of  urchins,  playing  at 
shovel-board  by  the  wayside,  paused  in  their  game  to  stare, 
and  at  sight  of  the  galloping  horses  broke  out  into  a  noisy 
cheer,  waving  their  caps  and  shouting  with  all  their  might. 

That  was  the  last  straw.  The  hideous  mockery  of  it  was 
more  than  Hugo  could  bear,  and  the  tears  started  to  his 
eyes.  Poor  little  urchins !  little  they  knew  what  the  horse- 
men whom  they  cheered  so  lustily  had  been  about!  But 
tne  consciousness  that  every  eye  was  upon  him  made  him 
recover  himself  instantly.  Drawing  himself  up,  he  rode 
on,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  only 
longing  for  the  rest  and  shelter  which  must  soon  come. 

At  length  they  reached  the  inn  where  but  a  few  weeks 
before  he  had  slept  with  Randolph  on  their  way  to  Long- 
bridge  Hall.  How  different  all  had  been  then  I  How 
gayly  he  and  Randolph  had  spent  that  evening !  How 
little  he  had  thought  of  all  the  danger  that  lay  before 
tim ! 

A  little  crowd  had  gathered  at  the  inn  door  to  watch  the 
strangers  ;  he  was  keenly  conscious  of  their  comments  as 
the  constable  helped  him  to  dismount.  Giddy,  exhausted, 
hardly  able  to  stand,  he  waited  for  what  seemed  an  eterni- 
ty while  Randolph  stood  on  the  step  talking  with  the  land- 
lord and  the  chief  constable.  The  burning  color  rose  to 
his  face  as  he  heard  the  words  passed  from  one  to  another 
in  the  crowd — "  A  traitor  I"  "  One  of  the  conspirators  !" 
"  The  plot  1"  "  What !  will  V  hang  un  at  Tyburn  ?"  "  Ay, 
ay,  to  be  sure  all  of  'emll  swing  for  it  1"  "  Serve  the 

d d  traitor  right,  too !"  "  Nay,  but  he's  a  fine  young 

spark,  too;  a*  will  look  rarely  on  the  gallows-tree!" 

"  Don't  you  heed  them,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  constables,  a 
burly  giant,  who  grasped  him  firmly  by  the  arm,  as  much 
with  the  view  of  supporting  him  as  of  keeping  him  in  cus- 
tody. "  Don't  you  heed  them.  They're  naught  but  buz- 
zing flies.  Their  heads  be  set  round  with  eyes,  so  they  can 
do  naught  but  stare  and  buzz." 

Hugo  smiled,  rather  as  courteously  acknowledging  the 


186  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

man's  ^indliness  than  as  feeling  any  amasement  at  his 
words.  For  indeed  an  overdriven  horse  may  be  sorely 
teased  by  a  swarm  of  flies,  and  the  staring,  jesting  crowd 
taxed  his  powers  of  endurance  to  the  utmost.  At  length 
came  a  welcome  diversion. 

"  Bring  the  prisoner  forward !"  said  the  chief  constable, 
and  Hugo  was  accordingly  marched  in  between  two  of  the 
men,  and  half  led,  half  dragged  upstairs. 

The  landlord  stood  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  ready  to 
usher  them  into  a  bed-chamber,  within  which  Randolph 
was  quarreling  vehemently  with  the  chief  constable. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  be  responsible  for  getting  the  pris- 
oner to  London  to-morrow,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  the  man 
was  saying,  angrily. 

"And  if  you  thwart  my  purpose,"  retorted  Randolph, 
with  a  volley  of  oaths,  "  I  tell  you  you  shall  pay  dearly  {or 
it.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  more  about  the  lad  than 
you  do  ?" 

The  constable  growled  something  inarticulate,  and,  as  at 
that  moment  Hugo  entered,  said  no  more.  He  merely  ex- 
amined the  lock  of  the  door,  bade  one  of  the  men  give  the 
prisoner  what  assistance  he  needed,  and  followed  the  land- 
lord to  another  room.  Randolph  lingered  a  minute,  watch- 
ing Hugo  keenly,  as  he  tried  to  take  off  his  broad-brimmed 
hat ;  but,  owing  to  his  fettered  hands,  failed  in  the  at- 
tempt. 

"  When  hunger  makes  you  change  your  mind  you  can 
send  me  word,"  he  said,  with  a  mocking  smile. 
Hugo  made  no  reply. 

"  Till  then  I  will  wish  you  good-evening.     Be  ready  to 
start  to-morrow  at  seven  of  the  clock." 
Still  Hugo  kept  silence. 

"  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ?"  asked  Randolph,  sharply. 
"  I  shall  be  ready  at  seven  of  the  clock,"  returned  Hugo, 
with  an  unmoved  face. 

Randolph  left  the  room,  feeling  curiously  repulsed  and 
surprised.  That  Hugo,  who  had  been  hitherto  so  plastic 
in  his  hands,  should  suddenly  develop  this  dignity  of  en- 
durance, this  strength  of  resistance,  was  to  him  utterly  un- 
accountable. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  dignity  did  not  last  long,  for  no  sooner 
had  his  brother  left  him,  than  with  a  groan  of  irrepressible 
suffering,  he  fell  back  into  the  nearest  chair,  too  wretched 
even  to  heed  the  presence  of  the  constable. 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "  keep  up  your  heart.  Them 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  187 

buzzing    flies  below  know  naught  of  the  truth.     I'd  not 
heed  them  were  I  in  your  shoon." 

"  I  care  naught  for  them !"  said  Hugo.  "  But  he — he  is 
my  brother — my  brother,  I  tell  you !  I  care  for  naught 
else  !" 

"  'Tis  a  hard  case,"  said  the  man,  genuinely  sorry  for  the 
poor  fellow,  who  had  indeed  won  all  hearts  by  his  conduct 
iii  the  morning.  "  But  belike,  sir,  it  will  turn  out  better 
than  you  fear.  I  can't  bring  you  supper,  for  'tis  against 
my  orders  ;  but  an  you  will  I  can  help  you  off  with  your 
boots  and  things.  A  man's  but  a  babe  in  such  fetters  as 
these." 

He  was  a  rough  nurse,  but  a  kindly  one,  and  kept  up  a 
perpetual  flow  of  conversation,  with  a  view  to  keeping  his 
prisoner's  thoughts  off  the  graver  questions  which  were 
likely  to  haunt  him. 

"  And  as  to  imprisonment  for  life  !"  he  remarked,  cheer- 
fully, when  he  had  seen  Hugo  to  bed  and  was  about  to 
lock  him  up  for  the  night,  "  as  to  imprisonment,  it  ain't 
so  bad  as  folk  think  for.  Your  honor  is  over  young  to 
have  left  a  sweetheart  behind  him,  and,  Lor'  bless  you  ! 
life  in  Newgate  is  none  so  strict  ;  you'll  find  many  a 
buxom  wench  there." 

The  incongruity  of  this  worthy  man's  comfort  touched 
Hugo's  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Just  because  the  words 
were  such  a  mockery,  just  because  they  good-naturedly 
and  unthinkingly  enough  touched  on  so  sore  a  subject, 
they  affected  him  as  nothing  else  on  earth  could  have  done 
at  that  moment — he  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm  of 
laughter.  He  was  locked  up  securely  ;  he  was  looking 
forward  to  nothing  but  a  life  of  privation  and  misery  ;  he 
was  ill  and  weary  and  sore  at  heart  ;  and  yet  he  laughed 
till  the  old  four-post  bed  shook,  laughed  till  wrath  at  his 
own  laughter  checked  him,  and  at  length  brought  him 
once  more  to  a  state  of  sober  exhaustion. 

Down  below  he  could  hear  a  noisy  party  supping  and 
drinking,  more  than  once  he  could  distinguish  Randolph  s 
voice  in  boisterous  merriment.  This  tended  more  than  any- 
thing to  sober  him  once  more,  and,  recollecting  how  much 
yet  depended  on  his  strength  of  purpose  and  determined 
resistance,  he  resolutely  turned  from  all  thoughts,  and,  al- 
most by  an  effort  of  will,  made  sleep  visit  his  weary  brain. 
The  burly  constable  had  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  wake 
him  the  next  morning. 

"  God  help  us ! "  he  exclaimed.     'Tis  surely  but  babes 


188  IN  THE  GOLDEN    DAYS. 

and  sucklings  that  sleep  so  sound.  Supperless  to  bed,  too! 
An  I  mistake  not  your  honor  is  as  innocent  of  this  plot  as 
the  unborn  babe." 

"  I  knew  naught  of  any  plot — naught !  "  said  Hugo,  em- 
phatically. And  it  was  some  comfort  to  him  to  feel  sure 
that  the  man  believed  him.  It  was  the  only  comfort  he  was 
to  have  that  day,  which  proved  a  very  hard  one.  Leaving 
Bishop-Stortford  behind  them  early  on  that  summer  morn- 
ing, they  rode  on  rapidly  to  London,  in  the  same  order  as 
before,  Hugo  between  the  chief  constable  and  Randolph. 
Not  a  word  had  passed  between  the  brothers,  but  Randolph 
was  able  to  gauge  very  accurately  his  chances  of  success. 
They  were  great.  He  felt  far  more  hopeful  than  on  the 
previous  evening.  Had  it  not  been  for  this,  the  dreary 
ride  would  have  been  less  tolerable  to  him,  for  the  chief 
constable  was  so  wroth  with  him  for  his  harshness  to  his 
brother  that  he  could  make  nothing  of  him  as  far  as  con- 
versation went,  and  it  was  against  his  policy  to  speak  to 
Hugo.  Indeed,  the  prisoner  was  almost  past  speaking. 
Only  once  did  he  make  any  remark.  It  was  as  they  were 
riding  past  the  Rye  House.  He  looked  up  curiously  at  this 
place  the  name  of  which  must  be  forever  hateful  to  him. 
High  walls,  a  battlemented,  turreted  house,  with  two  oriel 
windows,  green  trees  close  beside  it,  waving  in  the  summer 
wind,  and  beyond,  the  River  Lea  winding  its  tranquil 
course  through  level  green  meadows.  An  innocent  looking 
place  enough  !  Had  it  indeed  been  the  scene  destined  for 
so  treacherous  a  murder  ?  Or  was  this  plot  but  a  device  of 
the  enemy?  Would  it  prove  a  mere  ruse,  like  the  Meal- 
Tub  plot? 

"There is  the  place  that  has  got  you  in  trouble, sir,"  said 
the  chief  constable,  with  a  smile.  "  But  belike  you  know 
it  too  well  to  need  my  showing." 

"  I  never  heard  aught  of  it  till — "  Hugo  broke  off  abrupt- 
ly, aware  that  Randolph  was  listening,  and  thankf  ul  that  he 
had  checked  himself  in  time  and  had  not  added,  "  the  day 
before  yesterday," 

But  the  consciousness  thet  he  had  nearly  been  betrayed 
into  a' piece  of  indiscretion  troubled  him  not  a  little.  It 
was  so  hard  to  be  on  his  guard  at  every  turn — far  harder 
to-day  than  it  had  been  on  the  preceding  day.  He  was 
suffering  more  acutely  from  the  effects  of  the  merciless 
flogging;  he  was  weakened  by  hunger  and  fatigue,  he  was 
parched  with  thirst;  his  heart  failed  him  at  the  thought  of 
the  eighteen  miles  which  yet  lay  between  them  and  Lon- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  189 

don.  And  yet,  even  though  the  journey  was  so  wearisome, 
the  end  was  more  to  be  dreaded  than  all !  Thinking  of 
that,  he  would  have  been  willing  indefinitely  to  prolong 
this  ride — the  last  ride  he  was  ever  likely  to  take !  Life- 
long imprisonment!  Good  heavens!  why  had  he  been  en- 
dowed with  an  imagination  ?  How  horrible  were  the  vivid 
pictures  which  rose  before  him  !  And  the  world  was  so 
beautiful !  Nature  so  fair !  The  rapture  of  "  leafy  June  " 
thrilled  through  him  with  that  bitter-sweet  consciousness 
which  belongs  by  right  to  "last  times." 

They  rode  on  through  the  long,  straggling  village  of  Ed- 
monton, on  over  Stamford  Hill,  where  he  half  hoped  that 
they  might  be  waylaid  by  the  highwaymen  who  often  re- 
sorted there.  Surely  then  he  might  make  one  last  effort  at 
escape.  But  no  highwaymen  appeared;  the  party  of  horse- 
men rode  on  unmolested.  And  now  they  were  in  sight  of 
London  itself,  now  his  last  ride  was  almost  at  an  end,  his 
parting  with  Eandolph  drawing  near !  It  felt  to  him  like 
some  hideous  nightmare.  Was  he  indeed  the  same  Hugo 
who  had  ridden  forth  that  May  morning,  stifling  all  anxiety 
and  laying  aside  all  care  in  the  mere  joy  of  existence? 
Could  a  few  weeks  change  one's  very  nature  and  upset  one's 
whole  world?  Now  once  more  he  rode  through  the  same 
streets,  with  shameful  fetters  on  his  wrists,  with  the  burden 
of  another's  safety  in  his  keeping,  with  naught  before  him 
but  shame  and  suffering. 

On  through  Bishopgate  Street  Without  and  Within,  up 
Cornhill  among  the  crowds  of  staring  passengers  ;  until, 
rather  to  his  surprise,  he  was  suddenly  halted  at  an  inn  not 
far  from  the  Standard.  What  it  was  for  he  was  too  dazed 
and  weary  to  make  out,  but  the  constables  helped  him  from 
his  horse  and  led  him  in  ;  he  was  borne  unresistingly 
through  passages  and  up  and  'down  steps,  and  finally  left 
in  a  private  sitting-room  with  no  word  of  explanation.  Be- 
wildered, but  too  miserable  to  try  to  think  clearly,  he 
heard  the  door  locked  from  without,  stood  still  for  a  minute 
in  a  sort  of  stupefaction,  then  staggered  across  the  room 
to  an  oaken  settle,  upon  which  he  sunk  prone.  He  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  through  the  open  window  sounds  of 
horses'  hoofs  and  of  passers-by  floated  in,  and  above  all 
these  rung  the  shrill,  clear  tones  of  a  woman's  voice,  call- 
ing "  Strawberries,  ripe  strawberries  !"  The  high,  bell-like 
notes  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  then  gradually  grew  fainter 
again  till  they  died  away  in  the  distance.  Presently  a  much 
nearer  sound  startled  him  back  from  semi-consciousness  j 


190  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  door  opened,  and  Randolph 
entered.  Startled,  wholly  unfit  for  an  interview  with  his 
brother,  his  heart  beat  so  fast  that  it  half  suffocated  him. 

"For  God's  sake,  give  me  some  water!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  My  poor  lad,"  said  Eandolph,  in  his  kindest  voice, 
taking,  however,  no  notice  of  his  request,  "  you  are  quite 
worn  out;  and,  if  if  you  go  to  Newgate  in  such  a  state,  you 
will  be  down  with  jail  fever  before  many  days  are  over." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  said  Hugo,  shortly. 

"  Ay,  you  can  help  it,  and  for  my  sake  you  must  help 
it!"  said  liandolph  with  real  earnestness  in  his  tone.  " Do 
you  thiDk  I  care  naught  for  you  ?  Do  you  think  it  has  not 
tortured  me  to  find  you  turned  against  me — to  find  you 
thus  thwarting  me  ?  Come  back  to  me,  lad,  ere  it  is  too 
late !  All  shall  be  forgiven  and  forgotten.  The  king  will 
reward  you — I  will  reward  you;  half  the  estate  shall  be 
yours,  and  you  shall  be  to  me  the  most  trusted,  the  most 
loved  in  all  the  world." 

Never  had  Hugo  heard  such  words  from  his  brother, 
never  had  his  love  revealed  itself  as  now  in  look  and  tone; 
the  blind  devotion,  the  unfailing  loyalty  of  a  lifetime  had 
been  nourished  on  the  poorest  fare.  As  a  child  a  rough 
caress  had  kept  him  happy  for  days;  but  such  events  had 
been  rare  indeed.  He  recalled  them  vividly  just  because 
they  had  been  so  infrequent.  Then,  in  later  life,  Randolph 
had  been  stern  and  exacting,  only  on  rare  occasions 
he  would  drop  a  few  words  of  praise  or  of  approval,  and 
thus  bind  IJugo  to  him  with  the  ardent,  unquestioning  loy- 
alty which  asked  so  little  and  gave  so  much 

And  now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  this  stern,  hard  man 
unbent,  humbled  himself,  pleaded  with  one  whom  he  had 
hitherto  peremptorily  commanded,  and  in  the  most  dan- 
gerously tempting  way  exerted  again  all  his  influence  on 
the  susceptible  nature  which  till  now  he  had  kept  in  slavery. 

A  curiously  fascinating  smile  stole  over  his  strong  face, 
lit  up  the  usually  cold  eyes,  and  flickered  about  the  hard 
mouth. 

"You  are  faint  and  hungry — oh,  very  hungry !  I  know 
all  about  it.  And  I  am  dying  to  feed  you,  Hugo.  Come, 
you  have  withstood  me  far  too  long.  But  I'll  forgive  all, 
for  you  have  shown  what  mettle  you  are  made  of.  Only 
delay  no  more.  You  are  almost  fainting;  I'll  get  you  a 
cup  of  sack — but  see,  just  sign  this  paper  first,  and  then  all 
will  be  well,  and  naught  shall  come  betwixt  us  more." 

A  vague  hope  stole  over  Hugo.     Might  there  be  some 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  191 

loophole  of  escape — some  permissible  compromise?  He 
took  the  paper  in  his  hands,  and  with  some  difficulty  read 
it. 

Had  he  not  been  acquainted  with  legal  phraseology 
it  would  have  hopelessly  baffled  him;  but,  as  it  was,  he 
made  out  that,  wrapped  up  in  many  words  and  obscured  by 
rambling  sentences,  the  document  was  nothing  less  than  a 
declaration  that  he  would  reveal  all  that  might  be  of  service 
in  unraveling  the  plot.  It  was  put  in  a  very  ambiguous 
way,  but  that  was,  he  felt  convinced,  the  drift  of  the  whole 
thing. 

He  fell  back  into  his  former  position,  and  thought,  or 
rather  struggled  to  think.  His  brain  reeled.  A  wild  con- 
fusion of  possibilities  seemed  to  crowd  around  him.  Ran- 
dolph, in  the  meanwhile,  produced  a  goose  quill  and  an 
inkhorn,  and  drew  a  small  oaken  table  forward. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  patting  his  head  caressingly,  "  you  are 
so  weary,  dear  old  fellow,  you  scarce  know  whether  you 
are  on  your  head  or  your  heels.  Make  haste  and  sign  this. 
Then  we  will  come  home,  and  Jerry  shall  see  to  you. 
Come,  lad,  'tis  your  duty  to  both  king  and  country — no 
private  considerations  can  weigh  against  those  two.  Were 
it  such  a  preposterous  thing  to  do,  think  you  I  should  ask 
it  of  you?  Come,  sign,  and  trust  one  who  loves  you  better 
than  you  think  for." 

Once  again  it  was  Joyce  on  one  side,  with  independence 
and  conscience-hearkening,  and  Randolph  on  the  other, 
with  obedience  and  lawful  authority.  It  was  the  new 
strength  against  the  incalculable  power  of  ok!  association 
and  the  habits  of  a  lifetime.  If  only  Randolph  would  not 
look  at  him  with  such  kind  eyes  !  If  only  he  would  once 
more  treat  him  harshly !  Right,  duty,  which  way  did  they 
point?  Ah!  yes  ;  but  even  if  he  knew,  could  he  obey? 
Fiends  seemed  dragging  him  down,  down,  into  a  peace 
which  he  knew  would  prove  bondage.  A  hideous  confusion 
reigned  within  him.  Right!  was  there  such  a  thing  at 
all  ?  Would  not  expediency  prove  the  safest  rule  of  life  ? 

"  Ah,  God  !  God  !  the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such 
things  as  be  rightful !" 

The  words,  mechanically  repeated  by  him  day  by  day, 
now  rose  in  a  bitter  cry  from  his  soul.  In  his  anguish  he 
called  for  help  as  though  on  a  fellow-being, 

"  Come,  lad,"  said  Randolph,  smiling  kindly,  "  sign  and 
have  done  with  it.  Delays  are  dangerous." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo,  springing  to  his  feet  with  an  energy 


192  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

that  amazed  his  brother— k£  yes,  they  are  in  truth  danger- 
ous !" 

He  tore  the  paper  in  half,  he  tore  it  again  and  again,  he 
flung  the  fragments  from  him  as  though  they  had  been 
polluted. 

"  There  is  my  answer,  and  I  have  no  more  to  say  ;  now 
do  your  worst." 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  The  two  brothers  stood 
facing  each  other  ;  a  deep,  dark  flush  spread  over  the  face 
of  the  elder — the  wrath  of  a  strong  man  baffled,  the  hatred 
of  a  tempter  foiled,  gleamed  in  his  eyes  ;  the  younger, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  his  guardian's  face,  grew  each  instant 
paler  and  paler,  as  though  the  struggle  to  resist  that 
fiendish  temptation  were  robbing  him  of  life  itself. 

" By  my  troth!"  said  Randolph  at  length,  in  a  low,  pas- 
sionate voice,  "  you  shall  have  your  fool's  choice !  I  will  do 
my  worst !" 

Hugo's  lips  parted  as  though  he  would  fain  have  spoken, 
but  no  words  came.  He  made  a  step  forward  and  a  ges- 
ture— was  it  of  entreaty,  or  was  it  merely  for  physical  help  ? 
That  would  remain  forever  unknown,  for  he  fell  senseless 
to  the  ground.  Eandolph  bent  for  an  instant  over  the  in- 
animate form,  then  strode  to  the  door,  once  more  returned, 
once  more  looked  anxiously  at  the  ashy  face,  hesitated  a 
moment,  then,  with  a  fearful  oath,  turned  away  and  left  the 
room,  locking  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  TERRIBLE  NIGHT. 

Come  sleep,  oh,  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low  ; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  at  me  doth  throw  • 
•    Oh,  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  ; 
I  Will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

SIB  PTTTLTP  SYDNEY. 

THE  horses,  still  bearing  the  marks  of  hard  riding,  stood 
in  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  inn.  There  was  a  confusion 
of  many  voices,  many  feet,  many  wheels,  and  many  street 
cries.  Hugo  was  vaguely  conscious  of  it  all  as  he  was  led 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  193 

forth.  Another  high,  clear  voice  was  calling,  "  Strawberries, 
ripe  strawberries !" 

A  plaintive-looking  girl  was  trailing  along  with  a 
large  basket  calling,  "  Kosemary  and  brier !  rosemary  and 
brier  I" 

"What!"  exclaimed  one  and  another  in  the  group 
gathered  to  watch  the  horses.  "  One  of  the  plot  men,  say 
you?"  "A  Eye-House  man!"  "A  rogue!"  "A  traitor!" 
" Lord,  save  us !  but  he's  a  fine  young  spark!"  "Look 
you,  there  he  comes!  Rare  and  pale,  too;  one  would  a 
thought  they  had  most  racked  un."  "  Lord  love  ye,  they 
can't  put  un  to  the  torture  now !  not  except  in  Scotland 
with  Lauderdale."  "  But  a  stripling  he  be !  nought  but 
a  stripling!"  "Down  with  all  traitors,  say  I — and  long 
live  the  king !" 

This  led  to  a  small  outburst  of  loyalty,  and  amid  a 
storm  of  mingled  cheers  and  groans,  and  a  shower  of 
stones  and  refuse  from  which  the  burly  constable  did  his 
best  to  shelter  the  prisoner,  Hugo  was  led  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Newgate. 

And  now  they  had  left  Cornhill  behind  them,  and  were 
making  their  way  through  crowded  Cheapside.  Now  they 
caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  busy  masons  and  builders 
at  work  on  new  St.  Paul's,  and  now  gloomy  Newgate 
Street  lay  before  them.  At  last  the  grim  pile  itself  loomed 
into  sight  ;  they  paused  before  the  grizly  looking  gate. 
Hugo  was  dimly  aware  that  the  burly  constable  carried  in 
his  belongings — the  valise  which  had  been  left  at  Long- 
bridge  Hall,  and  the  lute  case.  He  wondered  what 
would  become  of  them,  he  vaguely  wondered  what  would 
become  of  himself  ;  he  followed  mechanically,  a  constable 
on  each  side  of  him,  and  the  chief  constable  in  advance, 
while  an  official  took  them  into  a  small  room,  where  the 
Newgate  governor  was  waiting  to  interview  them.  It  was 
only  by  an  intolerable  effort  that  he  roused  himself  suf- 
ficiently to  answer  the  questions  which  were  put  to  him. 
Then,  after  a  few  minutes,  the  men  who  had  hitherto  been 
his  guardians  prepared  to  leave.  He  roused  himself  again, 
bade  them  good-day,  and  thanked  them  for  their  courtesy. 
He  became  conscious  that  he  was  alone  in  this  horrible 
place — that  his  last  friends  had  left  him — that  Randolph 
had  finally  deserted  him,  and  that  he  was  at  the  mercy  of 
a  brute. 

The  governor  regarded  him  fixedly  for  a  minute,  evi- 
dently taking  his  measure.  Then  he  made  an  entry  in  a 


194  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

large  book  upon  the  table,  and  struck  a  bell  which   stood 
beside  him,  upon  which  an  official  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Twenty-pound  fetters,"  said  the  governor,  "and  OLC  of 
the  prisoners  to  rivet  them." 

The  man  disappeared — Hugo  stood  motionless,  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  not  one  whit  altered.  The  governor 
regarded  him  again  and  yet  more  keenly.  "Cool  cus- 
tomer," he  remarked  to  himself;  "  will  need  discipline!  " 

The  door  opened  again,  a  jailer  entered,  a  man  with  small 
twinkling  eyes  and  shaggy  hair,  carrying  the  keys  of  his 
office.  He  was  followed  by  a  much  more  repulsive-looking 
prisoner,  who  bore  the  heavy  irons  which  the  governor  had 
ordered.  Without  a  word  Hugo  submitted  to  necessity 
and  allowed  the  chains  to  be  rivetc  d  upon  his  ankles.  Just 
at  the  time  he  minded  the  touch  of  the  dirty  prisoner's 
hands  more  than  the  irons  themselves.  Meanwhile  the 
governor  was  giving  directions  to  the  jailer,  and  Hugo  saw 
a  gleam  of  fiendish  amusement  pass  over  the  features  of 
the  prisoner,  who  was  still  busy  with  his  fetters.  This 
somehow  nettled  him,  stung  into  life  his  desire  for  resist- 
ance. He  faced  round  upon  the  governor. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  load  me  with  irons  before  tria] 
sir  ?"  he  asked,  with  far  more  strength  and  fire  in  his  man* 
ner  than  the  man  had  given  him  credit  for. 

"  Right !"  roared  the  governor,  with  a  brutal  laugh. 
"  Odd^-fish  !  to  hear  the  young  spark  !  Why,  bless  your 
young  innocence,  you've  no  '  rights '  in  Newgate  !" 

"  How  about  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  sir  ?"  said  Hugo, 
Calmly. 

The  governor  smiled,  but  more  respectfully. 

"  Ah,  'tis  true,  you  have  me  there,  young  sir.  There  is 
that  cursed  habeas  corpus,  and  a  bad  day  it  was  for  Merry 
England  when  that  was  made  law — defrauding  honest 
jailers  of  their  due,  .and  favoring  knaves  and  vagabonds. 
We  were  better  off  in  Newgate  four  years  ago,  when  those 
meddlesome  Commons  left  us  to  ourselves,  weren't  we, 
Scroop?" 

The,  jailer  acquiesced  with  a  sardonic  grin — the  gov- 
ernor broke  again  into  a  loud,  brutal  laughter. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  after  a  minute,  recovering  him- 
self ;  "  we  waste  time,  and  time  don't  crawl  to  the  gov- 
ernor of  Newgate,  whatsoever  it  do  to  the  prisoners. 
Away  with  him,  Scroop — discipline  and  the  dungeon." 

And  with  this  terse,  alliterative,  and  alluring  sentence, 
Hugo  found  himself  dismissed. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  195 

Scroop  dragged  him  along  interminable  and  dingy  pass- 
ages, the  very  air  of  which  seemed  laden  with  all  that  was 
foul  and  lowering.  When  he  stumbled,  as  he  very  fre- 
quently did  from  weariness  and  the  weight  of  the  irons 
about  his  feet,  the  jailer  swore  at  him. 

"I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  that  there  be  such  things  as 
whips  in  Newgate,"  he  said,  with  a  savage  grin.  "  Ay, 
and  prisoners  to  wield  them,  too,  with  right  good  will  on 
their  mates." 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  thrashings  though  for  many  a 
day  to  come,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "  And  it  is 
scarcely  reasonable  to  growl  when  you  have  laden  me 
with  such  fetters."  ^ 

Something  in  his  tone  made  the  jailer  turn  and  look  at 
him  more  attentively  than  he  had  yet  done.  Brutal  as  the 
man  was,  he  could  yet  perceive  that  the  prisoner  was 
somehow  different  from  any  prisoner  with  whom  he  had 
yet  come  into  contact.  He  swore  no  more,  he  walked 
more  slowly,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wondered. 
What  was  there  about  this  new-comer  that  appealed  to 
him  so  strangely  ?  Silently  he  helped  him  down  a  flight 
of  stone  steps,  at  the  foot  of  which  he  paused  to  unlock 
a  narrow  door.  As  it  swung  back,  dismally  creaking  on 
its  hinges,  there  was  a  sound  of  rushing,  thumping,  scram- 
bling within. 

"Rats!"  said  Scroop,  laconically.  " But  they'll  not  at- 
tack you,  sir,  an  you  leave  them  alone.  Plenty  of  garbage 
for  them  to  feed  on  in  Newgate  !"  he  laughed  grimly. 

Hugo  glanced  round.  The  wretched  little  cell  was  ab- 
solutely bare,  save  that  in  one  place  the  gray  flagstones 
were  slightly  raised  as  though  to  form  a  bed,  and  another 
stone  was  laid  across  at  the  head  for  a  pillow.  The  walls 
were  reeking  with  damp,  the  atmosphere  was  insufferable, 
what  little  air  and  light  there  was  came  from  a  small  grat- 
ing which  opened  into  a  passage  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  was  past  complaining,  however.  He  just  dropped  down 
on  the  stone  bed  without  a  word.  The  jailer  stood  per- 
plexed— he  was  not  used  to  this  sort  of  thing. 

"  Well,  for  a  hard  bed  your  honor  seems  to  take  it  pretty 
easy !"  he  said,  regarding  him  curiously. 

"  Water — for  God's  sake  !"  said  Hugo,  faintly. 

Scroop  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  again  at  him  fixedly, 
and  finally  walked  away,  returning  before  long  with  a  pitcher 
of  water  and  a  hunch  of  bread,  which  he  set  down  on  the 
floor  beside  the  prisoner.  Then  without  another  word  he 


196  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

went  out,  closing  the  door  noisily  behind  him.  Hugo  in  • 
voluntarily  shuddered  as  the  key  grated  in  the  rusty  lock. 
It  roused  him,  however,  and  he  sat  up  and  drank  thirstily, 
then  once  more  fell  back  on  his  stony  couch,  too  weary 
as  3  et  to  eat,  though  the  bread,  for  which  a  few  hours 
before  he  would  have  given  much,  stood  on  the  floor  beside 
him.  But  the  delay  proved  fatal,  for  not  many  minutes 
after  he  was  roused  from  a  state  of  stupor  by  the  sound 
of  pattering  feet,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  that  three 
fat,  brown  rats  were  at  work  upon  the  bread,  gnawing, 
nibbling,  fighting  over  it.  He  found  himself  idly  speculat- 
ing what  they  would  do  when  it  was  eaten,  but  as  to  mov- 
ing a  finger,  driving  them  off,  rescuing  the  bread,  or  eating 
it  afterward,  no  power  on  earth  could  have  made  him 
do  it. 

Gradually  the  little  light  that  had  crept  in  through  the 
grating  faded  away,  the  cell  became  quite  dark  ;  he 
could  no  longer  watch  the  rats,  he  could  only  hear  them  and 
occasionally  feel  them  as  they  scampered  about  the  place  ; 
their  noise  kept  him  from  sleeping,  their  frequent  raids 
kept  him  in  an  uncomfortable  state  of  wakeful  suspense. 
One  thing  was  very  clear  to  him;  the  lifelong  imprison- 
ment, if  it  was  to  be  in  this  cell,  would  not,  be  of  very  long 
duration.  He  wondered  whether  death  would  free  him 
that  night,  wondered  whether  dying  hurt  much,  wondered 
whether  this  strange  sinking,  this  feeling  of  being  dragged 
down,  down,  endlessly  down,  might  perhaps  be  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end. 

All  at  once  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  made  him  start 
violently.  He  sat  up,  and  tried  to  make  out  in  the  murky 
darkness  where  the  speaker  could  be. 

"Art  weary  of  life  ?"  said  the  voice. 

"In  these  quarters,  ay,  verily,"  replied  Hugo. 

"You  can  change  them  this  moment,  an  you  will,"  said 
the  voice. 

He  thought  that  it  came  from  the  grating,  and  was  some- 
what reassured. 

1  'How  can  that  be?  Tell  me,  for  the  love  of  God!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  voice.     «  But  for  the  love  of  gold." 

"Money!"  exclaimed  Hugo.  "Can  that  take  me  out  of 
this  accursed  place  ?" 

"It  can  take  you  to  a  dry  and  spacious  room,  and  give 
you  a  bed  fit  for  a  Christian  to  lie  on;  it  can  give  you  food 
and  wine,  and  it  can  lighten  your  fetters." 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  197 

"Ten  gold  pieces,"  exclaimed  Hugo,  eagerly;  "if  you 
will  but  take  me  hence.!3' 

There  was  a  sound  of  laughter;  it  was  like  a  mocking 
fiend. 

"Ten  guineas!  No,  my  duck,  you  don't  stir  under 
twenty." 

"Twenty!"  Hugo  mused  a  minute.  All  the  money  he 
had  in  the  world  was  the  fifty  guineas  which  Randolph  had 
given  him  at  Longbridge  Hall.  He  must  not  stake  the 
whole  of  this  even  for  his  release  and  better  quarters. 
"Well,  then,  twenty  guineas." 

"  Twenty  guineas  will  but  take  you  to  the  common  ward ; 
'tis  full  to-night,  they  be  packed  close  as  herrings  in  a 
tub  !" 

"  Then  will  I  most  assuredly  stay  here,"  said  Hugo,  reso- 
lutely. He  fell  back  again  on  the  stones. 

"  But,"  said  the  voice,  "  an  you  stay  in  this  damp  hole 
you're  not  long  for  this  world.  The  toughest  can  but 
stand  it  a  few  weeks.  You're  signing  your  own  death- 
warrant,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  a  few  guineas  more  or  less. 
Now  for  sixty  guineas  I'll  get  you  into  the  press  yard, 
where  you  can  live  like  a  prince,  have  your  fine  friends 
to  visit  you  by  day,  and  feed  upon  the  fat  of  the  land."  * 

"I  can't  pay  it,"  said  Hugo  ;  "I  haven't  such  a  sum  in 
the  world." 

There  was  truth  in  his  voice.  The  invisible  being  knew 
that  he  must  reduce  his  terms. 

"Well,  then,  let  us  say  fifty  and  end  the  haggling." 

"  Nay,"  said  Hugo,  "  'tis  impossible  ;  leave  me  and  tor- 
ment me  no  further." 

"  Well,  since  you  will  have  it,"  said  the  voice.  Then 
again,  after  a  pause,  "  One  more  chance.  There's  the  cas- 
tle— fine,  airy  rooms,  plenty  of  light,  good  food,  though 
not  so  good  as  the  press  yard  ;  I'll  get  you  a  private  cham- 
ber in  the  castle,  if  you  will  give  me  forty  gold  pieces." 

"Agreed!"  said  Hugo,  catching  at  the  first  proposal 
which  it  was  really  in  his  power  to  accept.  He  took  the 
sum  named  from  his  purse,  and  Scroop,  hearing  the  chink 
of  the  gold  pieces,  lost  no  time  in  unlocking  the  door  and 
helping  the  prisoner — almost  carrying  him,  in  fact — up 
the  stone  steps  which  led  from  his  dungeon. 

"  Nat !"  he  roared,  in  his  stentorian  voice,  "bring  the 
fetters!" 

The  vaulted  passage  rang  and  echoed,  dismally  return- 
ing the  last  word.  Nat  came  scurrying  along  with  a  Ian- 


198  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

tern  in  one  hand  and  his  implements  in  the  other.  He 
was  the  same  evil-looking  prisoner  who  had  been  employed 
to  rivet  the  twenty  pound  irons,  and  he  grinned  derisively 
at  Hugo  as  he  proceeded  to  release  him  and  to  fasten  in- 
stead round  his  ankles  a  far  lighter  pair  of  shackles,  in 
which  he  could  move  with  very  little  discomfort.  When 
this  was  done  Scroop  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
along  labyrinths  of  stone  passages,  which  he  could  but 
dimly  perceive  by  the  nickering  light  of  the  lantern. 

"  The  common  debtors'  side  !"  said  Scroop,  jerking  his 
thumb  iii  the  direction  of  a  large  door,  "  and  .the  com- 
mon felons !"  he  nodded  his  head  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. I 

The  course  seemed  to  lie  midway  between  the  two,  and 
Hugo  was  relieved  to  find  himself  in  a  less  noisome  atmos- 
phere. Scroop  dragged  him  up  flight  after  flight  of  stone 
stairs,  and  at  length  paused  before  a  narrow  door,  which 
he  proceeded  to  unlock. 

"  You  may  thank  your  stars,  young  sir,"  he  said, 
gloomily,  "  that  I  let  you  out  on  such  low  terms.  Mark 
my  words,  many  don't  get  such  quarters  as  these  under 
five  hundred  pounds." 

Hugo  wondered  what  princely  accommodation  was 
about  to  be  offered  him,  and  was  not  unreasonably  wrath- 
ful when  he  found  that  this  private  room  was  of  the 
smallest,  and  was  fitted  with  three  barrack  beds,  two  of 
which  were  already  occupied. 

He  looked  at  the  two  sleeping  forms.  What  might  they 
not  be  ?  Murderers,  for  aught  he  knew  !  Surely  the 
dungeon  and  the  rats  with  solitude  would  have  been  pre- 
ferable to  this ! 

"  'Tis  overlate  to  see  to  the  bedding  to-night,"  said 
Scroop,  indicating  the  vacant  plank  bed.  "  You  will  be 
softer  than  stones  any  way,  and  to-morrow  you  can  have 
a  flock  mattress,  an  you  like  to  pay  a  crown  for  it  a  fort- 
night." 

The  occupant  of  one  of  the  beds  stirred  a  little,  and 
finally  ,turned  round  to  look  at  these  disturbers  of  his 
night's  rest. 

"  Is  this  what  you  call  a  private  chamber  ?"  said  Hugo, 
wrathfully.  And,  with  a  deep  oath,  he  dragged  himself 
across  the  room  and  flung  himself  down  upon  the  barrack 
bed. 

Scroop  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  sarcastic 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  199 

grin,  then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  left  the  cell  without 
any  further  remark,  locking  and  bolting  the  door  with  os- 
tentatious noisiness  which  was  not  lost  upon  Hugo. 

Disappointed  as  be  was  with  his  new  quarters,  however, 
to  be  free  from  the  rats  was  a  great  gain.  His  two  com- 
panions were  silent  enough,  the  room  was  dark,  and  Hugo, 
though  wretched  both  in  mind  and  body,  was  too  young 
tc  lie  awake  long. 

He  slept  soundly  for  some  hours.  When  he  awoke  the 
room  was  dimly  iighted  by  the  pale  moonbeams  which 
struggled  in  through  the  small  window.  He  looked  round, 
fancying  himself  at  Mondisfield  ;  he  stared  at  the  heavy 
iron  bars  across  the  window,  which  stood  out  black  arid 
hard  against  the  moonlight.  It  was  not  Mondisfield ! 
Where  was  it  ?  With  a  vague  uneasiness  he  started  up, 
but  instantly  felt  the  fetters  upon  his  ankles.  It  was  not 
Mondisfield !  Good  God !  it  was  Newgate ! 

Once  more  he  heard  Kandolph's  cold  voice,  "  Are  you 
aware  that  the  penalty  for  misprision  of  treason  is  im- 
prisonment for  life  ?"  And  fiends'  voices  seem  to  take  up 
the  words  and  echo  them  in  a  jeering  chorus,  "  Here  for 
life,  for  life  !  Here  for  life  I" 

He  sprung  up  in  a  sort  of  frenzy — he  struggled  vainly 
to  reach  the  barred  but  unglazed  window  high  up  in  the 
wall  from  which  the  cool  night  air  blew  in.  He  rushed  at 
the  door,  he  pulled,  strained,  dragged  at  it  as  though  by 
all  his  endeavors  it  could  be  induced  to  move  a  hair's- 
breadth.  What  was  reason  to  one  who  bad  realized  the 
meaning  of  lifelong  imprisonment !  The  door  must  yield ! 
Were  mere  wood  and  iron  to  prove  more  powerful  than 
the  passionate  craving  for  freedom  which  seemed  to  rend 
his  being  ?  Once  more  back  to  the  window,  once  more  a 
perception  that  it  was  hopeless  ;  then  back  to  the  door  and 
the  unavailing  struggle  with  the  merciless  lock,  which  all 
his  efforts  would  not  so  much  as  shake.  It  was  all  vain — 
vain !  And  he  was  here  for  life  ! 

With  a  stifled  cry  he  tbrew  himself  face  downward  on  the 
floor.  Effort  was  useless,  and  yet  this  awful  craving  to  get 
out  seemed  as  though  its  fierceness  would  kill  him.  Pant- 
ing, exhausted  with  the  bodily  exertion,  and  torn  in  pieces 
by  that  terrible  revolt  against  his  fate,  he  might  have  lain 
there  for  hours  had  not  a  voice  fallen  upon  his  ears  and 
started  him  into  attention.  Was  it  his  fancy  ?  Was  it 
merely  the  recollection  of  some  psalm  he  had  beard  at 
Mondisfield? 


200  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  What  if  in  prison  I  must  dwell, 

May  I  not  there  converse  with  Thee  ? 
Save  me  from  sin,  thy  wrath  and  hell, 

Call  me  thy  child,  and  I  am  free. 
No  bolts  or  bars  can  keep  Thee  out, 

None  can  confine  a  holy  soul, 
The  streets  of  heaven  it  walks  about, 

None  may  its  liberties  control." 

"Whose  words  are  those  ?"  he  exclaimed,  quieted  for  the 
moment,  partly  because  they  seemed  like  a  message  from 
Mondisfield,  partly  because  there  was  something  soothing 
in  the  rhythm  and  in  the  tone  of  the  voice. 

"  The  words  are  Mr.  Richard  Baxter's,"  said  the  voice. 
"  And  I,  who  speak  them,  am  one  Francis  Bampfield,  a 
prisoner  for  conscience's  sake." 

With  that  the  speaker  rose,  felt  about  for  flint  and 
steel  and  in  a  minute  had  kindled  a  rushlight  ;  then  he 
came  and  bent  over  the  prostrate  form  of  his  fellow- 
prisoner. 

"I  heard  not  your  entrance,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  slept 
soundly.  Is  there  aught  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  You  seem 
in  sore  distress." 

"  Distress !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  half  raising  himself  and 
looking  into  the  face  of  the  old  man  who  bent  over  him. 
"  I  am  in  prison  for  life,  sir — for  life."  He  broke  into  a 
discordant  laugh,  which  speedily  changed  to  uncontrolla- 
ble sobbing,  as  he  fell  back  once  more  into  his  former  po- 
sition. 

"I,  too,  am  in  prison  for  life,"  said  Bampfield.  "Be 
comforted,  'twill  prove  less  irksome  than  you  think  for." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Hugo,  starting  up  again.  "You  are 
old,  sir,  or  you  could  not  say  so.  Oh  !  for  the  love  of  God, 
sir,  tell  me,  is  there  no  hope  of  escape  ?  I  must  get  out 
or  I  shall  die !  " 

The  old  frenzy  was  returning;  once  more  he  rushed 
blindly  at  the  door,  as  though  he  would  tear  it  from  its 
hinges.  Bampfield  watched  him  for  a  minute  with  silent 
compassion  ;  then,  going  up  to  him,  he  drew  him  away 
with  gentle  force,  which  Hugo  was  in  no  state  to  resist. 

"  You  look  both  ill  and  weary,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet, 
measured  tones.  "An  you  will  put  up  with  it,  my  bed  is 
at  your  service.  Lie  down — slumber  will  do  more  for  you 
than  I  can." 

Hugo's  native  courtesy  returned  to  him,  and  in  a  voice 
which  contrasted  oddly  with  that  of  his  passionate  out- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  201 

break,  he  thanked  Bampfield  for  his  kindness,  but  would 
not  hear  of  robbing  him  of  his  bed.  However,  the  old  man 
was  not  to  be  resisted.  He  took  the  law  into  his  own  hands, 
made  Hugo  lie  down,  fetched  him  food  and  water,  and 
forced  him  to  swallow  them,  talking  the  while  in  a  sooth- 
ing, continuous  sort  of  way. 

"  Yes,  as  you  say,  I  am  old,"  he  remarked  ;  "  old  enough, 
I  trow,  to  be  your  grandsire.  But  you  will  accord  me  an 
old  man's  privilege,  and  hearken  to  my  experience.  Black 
times  you  m&y  have,  but  believe  me,  none  so  black  as  the 
first  night  in  jail.  Believe  me,  sir,  there  is  naught  so  hard 
but  custom  lightens  it.  I  speak  not  from  hearsay  ;  I  speak 
that  which  I  know,  having  been  oft  in  jail,  and  for  long 
years.  Men  may  imprison  your  body,  but  no  man  can, 
against  your  will,  imprison  you," 

Hugo  was  silent,  musing  over  the  words  which  fell 
strangely  on  his  ear,  since  he  was  not  accustomed  to  think 
much  about  any  such  matters  as  Bampfield  hinted  at. 

The  old  man  watched  him  keenly,  wondering  what  crime 
had  brought  upon  him  so  terrible  a  punishment.  The  pure 
face  with  its  beautiful  outlines,  the  dark  gray  eyes  with  their 
deep,  thoughtful  look,  did  not  lend  themselves  readily  to 
the  idea  of  any  crime  at  all.  But  he  was  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman to  ask  him  any  question,  and  indeed  before  long  he 
saw  that  the  new  prisoner  had  fallen  asleep,  much  as  a 
child  does  after  an  outburst  of  passion.  He  did  not  real- 
ize how  wonderful  had  been  the  relief  of  his  presence,  or 
what  an  immense  influence  his  mere  age  possessed  for  one 
of  Hugo's  reverential  nature.  But  he  felt  strangely  drawn 
toward  this  new  occupant  of  his  prison-cell,  and  unspeak- 
ably thankful  that  one,  who  would  effect  no  slight  change 
in  the  monotonous  life,  bid  fair  to  prove  a  welcome  addition 
to  their  number. 

CHAPTEE  XXL 

GRIFFITH    DOUBTFULLY    REGARDS    HUGO. 

Suspicion  s  among  thoughts  are  like  bats  among  birds,  they  ever 
fly  by  twilight. — BACON. 

IT  was  broad  daylight  when  John  Griffith,  minister  of 
Dunnings  Alley  Chapel,  Bishopsgate  Street,  awoke.  He 
glanced  sleepily  across  the  prison  cell,  vaguely  wondering 
whether  his  friend  Bampfield  had  yet  risen,  and,  perceiv- 


202  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ing  some  curious  change  as  he  looked,  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
vigorously,  and  looked  again.  Why,  what  was  this  ?  In- 
stead of  a  hoary  head  there  was  a  mass  of  curly,  light- 
brown  hair.  Where  had  his  friend  gone  to  ?  And  who 
was  this  new  comer  ?  He  rose  hastily,  but  his  curiosity 
had  to  remain  unsatisfied,  for  he  perceived  that  Bampfield 
was  at  his  devotions  at  the  further  end  of  the  cell,  and  the 
stranger  slept  as  if  nothing  on  earth  would  wake  him. 
Griffith  was  almost  irritated  by  the  sight  of  his  peaceful 
repose.  This  must  be  the  graceful  gallant  who  had  stum- 
bled in,  likely  enough  half  drunk,  the  night  before;  he  re- 
membered the  incident  well  enough  now,  and  he  remem- 
bered, too,  the  deep  oaths  which  he  had  uttered  as  he  flung 
himself  down  upon  the  vacant  bed.  How  he  had  managed  to 
obtain  possession  of  Bampfield's  quarters  was  a  mystery, 
and,  Griffith  grudged  them  to  him,  and  was  not  at  all  in- 
clined to  wish  this  intruder  welcome. 

"How  now,  Bampfield,"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  old  man 
rose  from  his  knees,  "have  you  been  sleeping  on  boards? 
And  did  this  godless,  drunken  blasphemer  turn  you  from 
your  own  bed?" 

Bampfield  smiled. 

"Gently,  good  friend  Griffith,"  he  said.  "Methinks 
those  epithets  scarce  apply  to  our  new  friend." 

"Friend!"  said  Griffith,  looking  with  scorn  at  the  gay 
crimson  doublet  Avhich  the  stranger  had  thrown  off,  and 
the  costly  lace  cravat  which  lay  beside  it.  "  Friend,  Bamp- 
field !  Nay,  but  a  godless  Whitehall  idler,  an  I  mistake 
not.  You  slept  last  night,  when  he  entered,  but  I  saw  him 
stagger  in,  drunk,  no  doubt,  and  swearing  at  the  jailer  with 
profane  lips. " 

"  Nay,  he  was  not  drunk,  poor  lad,  but  ill  and  weary,  and 
half  starved.  Courtier,  idler,  swearer  he  may  be,  yet  is 
there  a  grace  and  winsomeness  about  him  which  methinks 
is  not  all  court  breeding." 

"  You  would  see  good  in  every  living  soul!"  said  Griffith, 
impatiently.  "I  shall  form  ruy  own  judgment  upon  him. 
Is  he  like  to  remain  here  long  ?" 

"  I  trow  that  he  will  outlast  both  of  us,"  said  Bampfield, 
with  a  curiously  pathetic  smile.  "We  are  old  and  gray- 
headed,  but  yon  poor  boy  is  but  nineteen,  or  at  most 
twenty,  and  he  too  has  lifelong  imprisonment  to  face.  I 
found  him  heart-broken  last  night,  tearing  and  straining 
at  the  door  as  though  he  would  open  it  or  die." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  203 

"  Whereupon  you  offered  him  your  bed,"  said  Griffith, 
"  and  the  grace  and  winsomeness  of  which  you  speak  did 
not  hinder  the  profane  worldling  from  letting  a  venerable 
man  of  seventy  sleep  on  a  plank  bed." 

"  You  wrong  him,"  said  Bamplield.  "I  forced  him  to 
take  it,  nor  could  I  have  slept  after  witnessing  so  sad  a 
scene.  I  had  better  employment." 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  the  rising  generation !"  said 
Griffith,  vehemently.  He  could  not  add  that  he  had  no 
patience  with  his  friend  for  spending  half  the  night  in 
prayer  over  the  sorrows  of  an  unknown  stranger,  but  he 
relieved  himself  by  inveighing  against  the  depravity  of 
youth  in  general,  and  of  this  youth  in  particular. 

Hugo,  disturbed  by  the  voices,  was  struggling  to  wake 
up;  he  had  heard  the  last  part  of  the  conversation  in  a 
half-dreamy  state,  and  Griffith's  vehement  generality  made 
him  open  his  eyes.  He  looked  round  and  saw  a  tall, 
gaunt,  gray-haired  man  with  a  stern  and  hard  expression. 
He  was  clad  in  the  habit  of  a  divine,  and  though  he  was 
beyond  doubt  a  very  worthy  man,  and  though  Hugo  was 
quite  aware  of  the  fact,  and  was  conscious,  too,  that  he 
ought  to  be  thankful  enough  to  find  himself  in  such  good 
company,  he  nevertheless  formed  the  strongest  aversion 
to  Dr.  John  Griffith  at  first  sight. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  morning,  sir,"  said  Griffith,  bowing 
stiffly.  "  Had  I  known  that  you  were  in  need  last  night  I 
should  gladly  have  afforded  yeu  any  assistance  in  my 
power.  But  you  entered  this  cell  with  profane  words,  to 
which,  I  bless  God,  these  walls  have  not  of  late  echoed." 

Now,  in  those  days,  swearing  was  a  cultivated  art;  it 
was  considered  part  of  good  breeding.  Hugo,  being  of  a 
quiet  nature,  and  more  given  to  thinking  than  to  talking, 
probably  swore  much  less  than  most  men;  he  had  indeed 
been  many  a  time  taken  to  task  by  Kandolph  and  by  Den- 
ham  for  his  want  of  brilliancy  in  this  respect.  To  be  now 
reproved  for  a  single  oath  under  exceptionally  trying  cir- 
cumstances amazed  him.  Moreover,  he  resented  the  in- 
terference. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,  sir,"  he  repliedj 
coldly.  "As  to  modes  of  speech,  my  tongue  is  my  own." 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back  again  with  an  irrepressi- 
ble exclamation  of  pain.  Bampfield,  who  had  listened 
with  regret  to  the  words  which  had  passed  between  his 
companions,  now  drew  near  to  the  bedside. 

"  Are  you  rested  ?"  he  asked,  kindly.  "  Nay,  I  see  you 
are  still  but  weary." 


204  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  some  hours  of  forgetf ulness," 
said  Hugo,  looking  up  at  him  gratefully. 

"  Are  you  in  prison  for  crime  or  for  conscience  sake  ?" 
asked  Griffith,  stern!}7. 

"For  both,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  flushing  painfully. 

Griffith  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  That  is  impossible  !"  he  said,  with  stern  emphasis. 
"  Impossible,  sir !" 

An  indescribable  look  stole  over  Hugo's  face;  he  glanced 
at  Bampfield  as  though  to  appeal  to  him  against  this  hard 
verdict. 

"  You  are  still  very  weary  ?"  questioned  Bampneld.  "  Is 
there  naught  that  we  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Hugo,  frowning  with  pain.  "  I 
am  beaten  almost  to  a  jelly." 

"  Ha  !  how  was  that  ?"  said  Griffith  with  sudden  interest, 
for  he  was  a  doctor  of  medicine  as  well  as  a  divine.  Then, 
his  old  antagonism  to  Hugo  returning — "  But  perhaps  you 
deserved  it." 

The  muscles  of  the  new-comer's  face  worked  convuls- 
ively ;  this  ruthless  handling  of  an  old  wound  was  hard  to 
bear. 

"  I — did  deserve  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  there- 
with turned  his  face  from  the  light,  and  was  deaf  to  all 
other  questions. 

Bampfield  looked  reproachfully  at  his  companion,  and 
John  Griffith  softened  a  little  toward  the  new-comer, 
reflected  that  he  might  have  repented  of  his  crime,  and, 
turning  away,  began  vigorously  to  make  preparations 
for  breakfast. 

However,  though  Griffith's  question  had  been  heartless, 
it  proved  to  be  exactly  the  tonic  which  Hugo  needed. 
Bampfield's  kindness  had  saved  him  from  blank  despair, 
but  that  sharp,  that  torturing,  "  Perhaps  jrou  deserved  it," 
recalled  to  him  the  past,  and  with  the  hatred  of  the  jast 
an  almost  passionate  resolve  that  the  future  should  be 
very  different.  What  was  it  that  had  made  him  sink  so 
low  that  night  at  Mondisfield  ?  Love  of  life  had,  in  truth, 
proverd  strong,  but  it  was  not  merely  love  of  life  which  had 
made  him  yield.  Had  another  man  held  a  pistol  to  his 
head,  and  given  him  the  chance  between  death  and  crime 
he  would  have  assuredly  chosen  death.  The  power  had 
lain,  not  in  the  pistol,  but  in  Kandolph  ;  not  in  the  mere 
tlunio-ht  of  death,,  but  the  thought  of  a  violent  death  at 
his  brother's  hands. 

He  had  allowed  himself  to  be  held  in  bondage  by  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  205 

stronger  nature.  Randolph  had  been  to  him  as  a  god,  and 
he,  by  yielding  with  tame  and  blind  submission,  by  ceding 
to  another  what  he  had  no  right  to  cede — the  direction  of 
his  will  and  his  conscience — had  proved  himself  to  be  less 
than  a  man.  It  flashed  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  discovery 
that  words  which  he  had  heard  in  a  lifeless  mechanical 
way  were  no  poetical  image,  but  a  stern  reality,  a  fact  as 
true  for  him  in  the  seventeenth  century  as,  long  ago,  to 
the  listeners  on  the  Eastern  mountain-side.  "  No  man  can 
serve  two  masters."  He  would,  to  begin  with,  forfeit  the 
right  to  be  called  "  man  "  at  all — would  be  a  mere  cipher, 
an  incarnate  compromise  ;  and  ultimately  he  must,  by  the 
very  nature  of  things,  give  himself  wholly  either  to  one  or 
the  other,  either  to  the  right  master  or  the  wrong.  He 
knew  well  enough  that  he  had  of  late  vaguely  desired  to 
do  right,  that  for  months  he  had  been  also  drawn,  almost 
irresistibly,  more  and  more  under  Randolph's  influence. 
He  had  been  sorely  perplexed  by  the  clashing  of  duties, 
but  at  the  fatal  moment  «had  been  quite  well  aware  that  he 
had  deliberately  chosen  amiss. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  this  miserable  morning  in  New- 
gate that  he  saw  all  things  clearly  ;  realized  that  there  is 
only  one  Master  whom  a  man  can  serve  without  sinking 
into  degrading  slavery,  only  one  Master  whose  service  is 
perfect  freedom.  The  old  Church  prayer  returned  to  his 
mind,  the  Latin  version  of  which  had  till  now  been  an 
enigma  to  him — 

"  Quern  nosse  vivere. 
Ciri  servire  regnare." 

And  hitherto  he  had  not  "  served  "  but  had  been  dragged 
down  by  the  power  of  circumstance;  hitherto  he  had  not 
"  reigned,"  overcoming  by  virtue  of  the  Truth  and  the 
Right  ;  he  had  lived  in  a  despicable  slavery,  nay,  scarcely 
lived  at  all,  so  vague  and  misty  had  been  his  knowledge. 

To  pass  from  a  shadowy  belief  in  a  sort  of  fetish  to 
actual  knowledge  of  a  Living  Being  is  like  passing  from 
death  into  life — like  throwing  wide  a  closed  casement,  and 
letting  the  fresh  air  revive  one  panting  for  breath. 

It  seemed  to  Hugo  as  though  the  purity  of  Joyce,  the 
charity  of  Bampfield,  the  thoughtful  friendship  of  Mary 
Denham,  the  free  forgiveness  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe, 
blended  together  and  helped  him  to  a  vision  of  One  whom 
he  had  vowed  to  serve  manfully,  but  had  not  served — One 
-whom  he  had  vaguely  worshiped,  but  never  before  known. 


206  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS. 

Time,  then,  was  nothing,  place  was  nothing !  Bampfield 
had  spoken  truly — men  might  imprison  the  body,  but  here 
in  Newgate  one  might  "know"  and  "live,"  might 
"  serve  "  and  "  reigu."  He  could  bear  now  to  say  those 
terrible  words  which  last  night  had  half  maddened  him, 
"Lifelong  imprisonment;"  could  pray  as  he  had  never 
prayed  before  the  words  of  Mary  Denham's  collect. 

He  said  no  more  about  being  beaten  to  a  jelly,  but  got 
up,  eager  to  begin  his  new  life.  He  paused  in  tying  the 
cravat  which  had  excited  John  Griffith's  ire,  to  help  that 
worthy,  who  was  in  difficulties,  with  a  steaming  saucepan 
full  of  porridge.  He  stifled  his  inclination  to  laugh  at  the 
portentous  length  of  the  grace  which  Dr.  Griffith  pro- 
nounced over  the  very  frugal  meal,  and  he  accepted  Bamp- 
field's  offer  of  hospitality  with  gratitude,  gulping  down 
the  tasteless  and  ill-cooked  food  with  heroic  resolution, 
and  inwardly  debating  whether  he  might  not,  in  course  of 
time,  improve  upon  Griffith's  cooking,  and  serve  up  por- 
ridge which  savored  less  of  smoke  and  the  pot. 

"  Is  the  food  supplied  to  prisoners  ?"  he  asked,  anxious 
to  find  out  what  his  expenses  would  be  in  his  new  abode. 

"  A  small  quantity  is  supplied,"  said  Bampfield,  "  but 
scarce  sufficient  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  You  can, 
however,  purchase  what  you  will.  Nowhere  is  money  a 
greater  power  than  in  prison." 

"  Ay,  that  I  discovered  la.st  night,"  said  Hugo.  "  It  was 
not  till  the  jailer  had  cajoled  me  out  of  forty  gold  pieces 
that  he  brought  me  hither  out  of  a  pestilent  dungeon." 

"  They  ever  get  heavy  premiums  in  that  way,"  said 
Bampfield,  "  and  even  now  you  will  be  charged  ten  shillings 
and  sixpence  rental  by  Scroop,  and  one  shilling  each  week 
by  the  female  who  cleans  the  rooms  and  makes  the  fires." 

Hugo  looked  grave.  But  ten  more  gold  pieces  remained 
within  his  purse,  and  if  for  mere  bed  and  lodging  he  must 

Eay  fourteen  shillings  a  week  his  resources  would  ere  long 
e  exhausted.  Moreover  there  would  be  his  share  in  lights 
and  coals  and  food  to  be  thought  of.     The  money  would 
not  lust  him  much  more  than  two  months.     Two  months 
out  of  a  life-time  ! 

Presently,  when  Griffith  had  retired  to  the  further  end 
of  the  cell  to  prepare  a  sermon,  Bampfield  heard  all  Hugo's 
story;  he  heard  the  outline  of  facts,  that  is;  and  his  age 
and  experience,  together  with  an  innate  perception  of 
the  new-comer's  character,  enabled  him  to  fill  in  the 
gaps  which  necessarily  occurred  in  Hugo's  narrative. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  207 

Nor  was  it  difficult  to  imagine  the  extraordinary  ascenden- 
cy which  the  elder  brother  had  exercised  over  the  mind 
of  the  younger.  Puritan  as  he  was,  Bampfield  neverthe- 
less discerned  at  once  that  Hugo  was  one  of  the  artist 
type — receptive,  responsive,  by  nature  a  worshiper  ;  over 
such  a  character  how  easy  it  was  to  picture  the  mastery  of 
a  strong  man,  passionately  loved !  He  could  not  but  hope 
great  things  from  one  who  could  break  such  a  chain,  and 
Hugo's  grief  at  the  separation  from  Randolph,  which  was 
more  apparent  by  what  he  left  unsaid  than  by  any  words 
which  he  could  have  uttered,  touched  the  old  man  deeply. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  separation  from  lath  and  kin,  in  belief 
and  practice,  is  a  hfttd  thing  to  face,  but  it  is  what  your 
Lord  bore  in  his  life.  '  Even  his  brethren  did  not  believe 
in  him.'  Many  a  time  those  who  suffered  for  conscience 
sake  will  have  to  heal  their  smarts  with  those  words." 

"  And  you,  sir  ?"  asked  Hugo.  "  Did  you  too  have  this 
to  bear?  Tell  me  of  those  imprisonments  of  which  you 
spoke  last  night." 

"In  good  sooth,  many  are  the  friends  whom  I  have  lost," 
said  Bampfield.  "  Think  not  that  I  blame  them — nay,  oft- 
times,  thinking  over  it,  I  blame  myself  ;  for  did  we  live  as 
we  ought — did  not  our  failings  dim  the  Christ-light — let 
us  hold  what  opinions  we  would,  folks  would  be  slow  to 
leave  us.  My  tale  is  but  a  short  and  uneventful  one.  I 
was  born  of  an  old  and  honorable  Devonshire  family,  and 
was  educated  at  Wadham  in  the  University  of  Oxford.  My 
young  days  were  cast  in  evil  times  ;  I  was  then  a  loyalist, 
and  an  ordained  minister  of  the  Church  of  England.  My 
cure  was  at  Sherbourne  in  Dorsetshire,  and  there  I  con- 
tinued to  read  Common  Prayer  publicly  longer  than  any 
other  minister  in  Dorsetshire,  for  which  I  incurred  some 
danger — it  had  been  ever  my  fortune  to  go  with  the  losing 
side,  you  see !" 

He  smiled,  a  curiously  pathetic  smile,  which  touched 
Hugo. 

"  At  that  time  I  was  also  prebendary  of  Exeter  Cathe- 
dral. It  was  not  till  later  that  I  found,  as  I  thought, 
many  matters  in  the  Church  which  called  loudly  for  ref- 
ormation. Mr.  Richard  Baxter  was  the  means  of  bringing 
me  over  to  the  parliamentary  party,  and  soon  after  evil 
days  began  for  us.  The  king  returned,  the  Act  of  Unifor- 
mity was  passed,  and  there  was  naught  for  me  to  do  but  to 
quit  my  living  and  my  prebend,  being  utterly  dissatis- 
fied with  the  conditions  which  it  imposed.  I  was  from 


208  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

that  time  forth  a  marked  man,  and  soon  after  was  ap- 
prehended and  cast  into  jail  for  worshiping  God  in  my 
own  family.  I  smile  now  at  the  remembrance.  There 
were  five-and-twenty  of  us  thrust  into  one  room  with  but 
one  bed.  However,  we  passed  the  time  peacefully  in  re- 
ligious exercises." 

"And  did  they  keep  you  there  long?"  asked  Hugo, 
with  the  keen  interest  of  a  hearer  who  can  realize  the  sit- 
uation. 

"  Nay,  but  a  short  time.  However,  freedom  was  not 
meant  for  me.  I  was  again  apprehended  for  preaching,  for 
•refusing  to  keep  back  the  message  intrusted  to  me,  even 
Chough  this  free  land  had  been  bound  in  slavish  chains  by 
flaws  devised  by  Clarendon  and  approved  by  the  king.  That 
time  I  was  in  jail  eight  years.  'Twas  in  Dorsetshire  jail,  a 
grewsome  place  enough." 

"  Did  it  seem  very  long  ?"  asked  Hugo,  huskily. 

"It  was  long,yet  I  knew  that  it  was  not  too  long ;  it  was  the 
training  my  Lord  thought  best  for  me.  Moreover,  no  one 
could  hinder  my  preaching  in  the  jail  ;  I  preached  every 
day." 

"  And  when  you  were  liberated  ?"  questioned  Hugo. 

"  Then  I  wandered  about  the  country  again  for  a  while, 
gaining  a  hearing  when  and  where  I  could,  but  I  was 
again  apprehended  and  cast  into  Salisbury  jail.  After 
that,  once  more  freed,  I  came  to  London  and  gathered  a 
congregation,  first  at  the  chapel  in  Devonshire  Square, 
and  later  at  Pinner's  Hall.  Last  year  I  was  preaching 
there  when  there  broke  in  several  officers,  who  dragged 
me  down  from  my  place  and  carried  me  o3:  under 
guard  to  bring  me  before  the  Lord  Mayor.  I  was  here  in 
Newgate  after  that  for  a  time,  but,  being  released,  found 
myself  in  worse  odor  than  ever,  and  shortly  afterward,  in 
March  of  this  year,  I  and  my  friend  Dr.  Griffith  were  both 
committed  to  Newgate  for  refusing  the  oaths  of  supremacy 
and  allegiance,  and  here  we  are  like  to  remain  the  rest 
of  our  lives." 

Hugo  mused  for  a  while  in  silence.  The  story  was  per- 
plexing to  one  of  his  way  of  thinking,  but  no  one  could  for 
a  moment  doubt  Bampfield's  honesty,  and,  what  was  more, 
his  holiness.  He  had  not  yet  seen  enough  of  the  world  to 
realize  that  the  sins  of  any  body  of  men  sooner  or  later 
cause  a  schism  in  that  body — that  the  Church,  by  her  sins, 
lost  many  of  her  bravest  and  noblest  sons,  and  that  those 
who  outside  her  pale  fought  against  tyranny  and  intoler- 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  209 

ance  and  maddening  restrictions  were  fighting  on  God's 
side.  Instinctively,  however,  lie  honored  the  zeal  for  truth, 
the  scrupulous  conscientiousness  wrhich  the  Nonconformists 
had  shown;  instinctively,  too,  he  realized  that  he  must 
avoid  all  controversy,  and  be  content  to  learn  what  he  could 
from  these  two  old  men,  whose  experience  had  been  so 
strange  and  varied. 

Fortunately  the  beautiful  reverence  which  was  one  of  his 
most  marked  characteristics  stood  him  now  in  good  s-tead, 
and  kept  peace  in  the  cell  where  otherwise  there  must  have 
been  discord,  seeing  that  nature  and  nurture  had  turned 
the  three  so  differently. 

Bampfield  had  only  just  finished  his  story  when  the  door 
was  unlocked  and  Scroop  entered,  followed  by  a  surly- 
looking  prisoner,  who  carried  Hugo's  valise  and  lute-case. 
The  jailer  directed  him  to  put  them  down  on  the  barrack- 
bed  which  he  had  allotted  last  night  to  the  new-comer, 
and  then  proceeded,  in  his  grim  way,  to  enlighten  the 
owner  as  to  various  prison  rules  and  regulations.  Hugo 
could  hardly  listen  to  the  fellow,  so  impatient  was  he  to 
open  the  lute-case.  When  at  last  the  jailer  had  departed 
he  began  to  tear  open  the  straps  and  clasps  with  eager 
fingers,  deaf  to  Griffith's  questions,  and  mindful  only  of 
Joyce.  The  1M  raised,  he  looked  eagerly  in  and  found, 
securely  packed  away  beside  his  lute,  three  books —  a  vol- 
ume containing  five  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  a  copy  of  the 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  but  recently  published,  and  a  little 
edition  of  St.  John's  Gospel.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  this  last 
was  written,  in  a  clear,  but  tremulous  hand-writing. 

"For  my  dear  love.     They  are  all  the  books  I  have." 

Tears  rushed  to  Hugo's  eyes,  a  passionate  longing  con- 
sumed him  for  one  more  sight  of  Joyce — Joyce,  his  sweet, 
tme-hearted  love !  Joyce,  who  belonged  to  him,  and  to 
whom  he  belonged  by  right  of  that  mysterious  union  of 
souls  which  no  prison  walls — not  even  the  walls  of  this 
hellish  Newgate — could  sever.  Unable  to  see  the  words 
which  were  to  him  so  full  of  comfort,  he  pressed  the  book 
to  his  lips  and  kissed  it  fervently. 

"  Sir,"  said  John  Griffith,  sternly,  "  I  trust  you  take  no 
rash  oath.  Tell  me,  I  pray,  why  you  thus  irreverently 
press  the  holy  book  to  lips  which  of  late  speak  profane 
words  ?" 

"  Beshrew  me,  sir,  they  shall  speak  such  words  no  more," 
said  Hugo,  quickly,  his  rapture  of  love  lending  him  a  large 
generosity,  which  put  up  with  the  doctor's  interruption, 


210  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  made  his  impatience  of  the  previous  night  seem  con- 
temptible. 

Bampfield  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment,  a  smile  of  sym- 
pathy illumining  his  worn  features.  This  new-comer  was 
already  proving  a  blessing  to  him  ;  he  had  brought  an 
atmosphere  of  youth  and  hope  and  love  into  the  dreary 
cell  which  refreshed  the  old  man  greatly,  and  relieved  the 
weary  monotony  of  the  prison  life. 

On  the  Saturday,  however,  when  Hugo,  somewhat  cheered 
and  already  growing  accustomed  to  his  new  quarters,  took 
his  lute  and  began  to  play,  Bampfield's  conscience  would 
not  permit  him  to  keep  silence. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  Sabbath.  Will  you 
not  keep  it  with  me,  and  lay  aside  wordly  things  ?" 

Hugo,  who  would  have  done  anything  to  please  the 
gentle  old  man,  at  once  put  by  the  late  and  patiently  lis- 
tened to  a  series  of  readings  and  discourses,  finishing  with 
a  debate  between  Griffith  and  Bampfield  as  to  the  observ- 
ance of  the  seventh,  or  the  first,  day  of  the  week.  But 
when,  on  the  following  day,  Griffith  took  him  sternty  to 
task  for  reading  Shakespeare,  he  was  less  patient.  Not 
being  accustomed  to  the  Puritan  method  of  observing  Sun- 
day, it  seemed  to  him  intolerable  to  be  required  all  at  once 
to  keep  both  the  rest-day  of  the  seventh-day  Christian  and 
the  rest-day  of  the  Baptist.  It  needed  all  his  innate  cour- 
tesy to  euable  him  to  pass  the  two  days  in  a  way  which 
should  not  hurt  the  feelings  of  either  of  the  old  men,  and 
on  the  Monday  he  was  so  chafed  and  wearied  by  the  re- 
straint that  he  felt  ready  to  quarrel  with  everybody  and 
everything. 

It  was  some  relief  to  be  allowed  to  take  an  hour's  walk. 
One  of  the  privileges  of  this  part  of  Newgate  consisted  in 
the  possession  of  a  paved  passage  running  between  the 
outer  wall  and  the  building  itself,  a  dreary  enough  place, 
paved  with  purbeck  stone,  and  running  to  a  length  of  some 
fifty  feet  or  more.  It  was  something,  however,  even  to  be 
in  the  open  air,  within  hearing  of  the  life  and  bustle  of 
Newgate  Street,  and  Hugo  walked  up  and  down,  working 
off  some  of  his  weariness  and  despondency  by  the  help  of 
rapid  and  mechanical  exercise. 

As  he  paced  to  and  fro  a  stranger  happened  to  enter  the 
court  at  the  further  end.  Visitors  frequented  Newgate  all 
day  long  in  those  times,  and  consorted  freely  with  the 
prisoners;  for  although  the  privations  and  discomforts  of 
prison  life  in  £he  seventeenth  century  were  much  greater 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  211 

than  in  the  present  day,  there  was  a  sort  of  rude  liberty 
and  license  permitted  which  would  scandalize  the  stern 
disciplinarians  of  our  time. 

The  visitor  was  a  man  who  quickly  arrested  the  atten- 
tion. There  was  something  unusual  about  his  person  and 
mien  which  made  every  one  look  a  second  time  at  him. 
He  moved  with  a  peculiar  ease  and  dignity,  his  face  was 
calm,  serene,  and  thoughtful;  he  seemed  to  walk  the  world 
as  an  acute  observer  of  men  and  manners,  but  there  was 
about  him  nothing  of  the  censorious  critic.  Before  all 
things  he  was  sympathetic — in  fact,  he  observed  every  one 
with  such  deep  sympathy  that  he  practically  lived  with 
them,  seeming  almost  to  lose  the  sense  of  his  own  person- 
ality, so  deeply  was  he  absorbed  in  the  life  around  him. 
He  leaned  now  against  the  grim  door-way  at  the  entrance 
to  the  paved  yard,  his  easy  attitude  contrasting  curiously 
with  the  gait  of  the  downcast  prisoner,  who  tramped  dog- 
gedly to  and  fro. 

Betterton — for  it  was  none  other  than  the  great  trage- 
dian— watched  every  motion  of  the  walker,  watched  keenly, 
but  with  that  living  sympathy  which  distinguishes  the 
artist  from  the  scientist. 

A  slight  figure,  clad  in  a  crimson-cloth  doublet,  black- 
silk  hose,  and  broad,  black  hat,  from  which  trailed  a  long, 
yellow  ostrich  feather  ;  a  walk  at  once  dejected  and  des- 
perate, slightly  uneaven,  too,  as  though  the  wayfarer  were 
recovering  from  some  illness  ;  the  head  bent,  the  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground,  the  hands  clasped  behind  him,  the  iron 
shackles,  which  hung  loosely  on  the  shapely  ankles,  clank- 
ing dismally  at  each  step.  The  face  he  could  not  clearly 
see,  it  was  hidden  by  the  wide  brim  of  his  hat,until,  just  as 
the  prisoner  had  taken  his  third  turn  up  and  down,  some 
sound  made  him  look  up  hastily.  The  actor,  to  his  intense 
surprise,  saw  before  him  the  strange,  broad-browed  face, 
with  the  great  gray  eyes,  and  the  indefinable  something 
which  raised  it  above  other  faces.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
take— he  was  certain  that  it  must  be  the  young  amateur 
tenor,  the  favorite  at  Will's,  who  not  many  weeks  since  had 
been  applauded  to  the  echo  in  very  different  circum- 
stances. He  stepped  forward  hastily. 

"Mr.  Wharncliffe !"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Hugo  clutched  at  it  as  a  drowning  man  clutches  at  a 
straw.  To  hear  a  familiar  voice,  to  see  the  well-known 
and  kindly  face  of  Betterton  in  that  dismal  abode,  gave 
him  a  momentary  thrill  of  rapture.  He  was  not  long  in 


212  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS, 

telling  the  actor  all  his  tale,  and  Bretterton  listened  with 
that  sympathetic  silence  which  is  better  far  than  words. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  he  said,  at  the  close. 

"  Tell  me  first,  an  you  will,  what  arrests  have  been 
made,"  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 

"Many  warrants  have  been  issued,"  said  Betterton. 
"  But  I  have  heard  naught  of  arresting  any  leading  man 
save  Lord  Russell." 

"  Lord  Russell !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  in  astonishment. 

"  Ay,  he  is  in  the  Tower,  and  to  be  brought  to  his  trial 
shortly." 

"  And  Colonel  Sidney  ?     Heard  you  aught  of  him  ?" 

"Nay,  he  is  yet  at  large.  I  saw  him  yesternight,  nor 
have  I  heard  of  his  being  involved  in  the  plot." 

"God  be  thanked !"  said  Hugo,  his  face  brightening. 
"  You  asked  what  you  could  do  for  me,  sir.  I  should  bo 
greatly  beholden  to  you  an  you  would  go  to  Colonel  Sid- 
ney's house,  see  him  privately,  and  tell  him  all  you  have 
now  heard  from  me." 

"  I  will  see  him  with  pleasure,"  said  Betterton.  "  And  at 
once." 

"  Tell  him,  sir,  that  I  will  not  risk  writing,  fearing  to  in- 
volve him  in  danger.  But  beg  him  to  send  me  some  word  of 
counsel,  and,  if  it  may  be,  one  of  forgiveness."  His  voice 
faltered,  he  half  broke  down,  but  resumed,  after  a  moment's 
pause  : 

"  Tell  him  I  know  that  I  deserve  to  be  despised  by  him — 
that  I  will  bear  it  as  a  just  punishment  if  it  must  be.  But 
tell  him,  too,  that  I  would  die  for  him,  that  I  would  live  in 
torture  for  him.  Nay,  tell  him  not  that,  'tis  like  the  false 
disciples  who  afterward  fled.  Tell  him  no  words  of  mine, 
but — "  he  grasped  the  actor's  arm,  looking  into  his  eyes 
with  an  entreaty  which  Betterton  never  forgot — "but make 
him  understand." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Betterton,  simply.  "  I  see  well 
what  your  love  for  Mr.  Sidney  is,  and  can  at  least  tell  him 
of  that." 

"  Ah !"  broke  in  Hugo,  "  you  will  never  know  what  he  is — • 
neveH  He  has  been  to  me  friend,  guide,  teacher — well- 
nigh  father — to  me  who  was  naught  to  him — naught  but  a 
stranger.  My  God !  and  it  is  such  a  one  that  men  deem 
cold  and  harsh — a  traitor — one  to  be  hunted  from  the  land 
he  loves !" 

"Time's  up,  sir!"  shouted  a  grim  voice. 

The  agitation,  the  light  of  love  and  devotion  died  out  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  213 

Hugo's  face,  and  a  stern  look  settled  down  upon  his  fea- 
tures. "Farewell,"  lie  said,  grasping  Betterton's  hand. 
"  Farewell,  and  thank  you." 

Then  with  a  curious  dignity  of  obedience  he  followed 
his  imperious  jailer,  and  disappeared  within  the  gloomy 
pile. 

The  actor  watched  him  out  of  sight,  brushed  away  a  tear 
from  his  eyes,  and  left  the  prison-yard  looking  graver  than 
when  he  entered  it. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

SIDNEY   AND   BETTEKTON. 

WILL. — I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he  of  our  estate  ? 
KING  H. — Even  as  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand,  that  look  to  be 
washed  off  the  next  tide. — King  Hairy  V. 

IT  is  a  curious  fact,  but  a  fact  borne  out  by  the  experi- 
ence of  most  people,  that  the  great  actors  in  the  drama  of 
life,  the  characters  who  take  the  leading  parts  and  the 
difficult  roles,  are,  as  a  rule,  calmer  and  quieter  in  face  of 
peri!  and  in  time  of  commotion  than  the  lesser  men,  who 
play  humbler  parts,  and  who,  while  involved  in  slighter 
risk,  seem  to  be  much  more  troubled  about  it.  On  that 
bright  summer  morning  which  followed  Betterton's  \isit 
to  Newgate  most  men  in  any  way  connectc  d  with  the  Whig 
party  were  conscious  that  they  were  treading  on  the  brink 
of  a  volcano.  The  bravest  could  not  but  be  apprehensive 
at  such  a  time  ;  the  most  courageous  found  it  hard  to  live 
quietly  on  in  their  homes,  knowing  ihat  at  any  moment  a 
pretext  might  be  made  for  issuing  a  warrant  against  them. 
The  country  was  stirred  to  its  depths  by  the  news  of  the 
plot  ;  panic  reigned  supreme.  Yet  in  Algernon  Sidney's 
study  all  was  calm  enough  on  that  Tuesday  morning,  the 
26th  of  June. 

The  calmness  struck  Betterton  not  a  little  when,  ushered 
in  by  Ducasse,  he  found  himself  in  fhe  presence  of  the  re- 
publican. The  room,  somewhat  meagerly  furnished,  seemed 
to  bear  the  owner's  history  stamped  upon  it.  It  was 
lacking  in  the  grace  and  neatness  and  comfort  betokening 
womanly  care.  In  the  prevailing  shabbiness  there  were, 
nevertheless,  tokens  that  the  owner,  though  poor,  was  of 
noble  birth,  for  here  and  there  a  bit  of  cumbrous  family 
plate  was  to  be  seen,  the  Leicester  arms  were  blazoned  up- 


214:  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

on  the  brown  morocco  of  more  than  one  volume  lying  on 
the  table,  and  relics  of  Penshurst  might  have  been  noted 
among  the  ordinary  furniture  of  a  London  house.  Pres- 
ent, too,  were  signs  that  Sidney  was  one  of  the  wanderers 
of  the  earth.  An  old  trunk  fuli  of  letters  and  papers  stood 
open  beside  the  writing-table  ;  a  pillow-beer — friend  of 
many  a  weary  journey — lay  hard  by  ;  while  the  literary 
tastes  of  the  patriot  were  plainly  evidenced  by  what,  for 
those  days,  was  a  large  collection  of  books. 

Betterton  had  a  moment  in  which  to  take  in  all  these 
details,  and  to  become  conscious  of  an  atmosphere  of  hard 
work  which  pervaded  the  room.  Sidney  was  so  absorbed 
in  his  writing  that  he  had  not  noticed  the  opening  of  the 
door,  and  his  servant  crossed  the  room  and  mentioned  the 
visitor's  name  a  second  time  before  he  looked  up.  For 
one  moment  the  actor  caught  the  two  faces  full  in  the 
bright  light  which  streamed  in  from  the  window.  The  face 
of  the  faithful  valet  bearing  traces  of  care  and  harassing 
anxiety;  the  face  of  the  patriot  a  little  sterner  than  it  waa 
wont  to  be,  but  pervaded  by  that  majestic  calm  which 
seems  to  be  the  panoply  wherewith  strong  souls  are  indued 
in  time  of  trouble.  There  flashed  across  Betterton's  mind 
the  description  of  a  noble  man  in  words  which  he  had 
often  spoken  upon  the  stage: 

"E'en  as  just  a  man  as  e'er  my  conversation  coped 
Withal .  .  .  That  man  who  is  not  passion's  slave." 

It  was  not  often  that  such  a  one  was  to  be  met  with;  yet 
here  was  a  man,  even  in  this  vile  age,  noble  of  soul  and 
pure  of  life. 

The  slight  air  of  hauteur  was  evidently  an  inherited  ex- 
pression ;  it  was  not  in  accord  either  with  Sidney's  life 
or  with  his  principles.  Moreover,  it  was  only  noticeable 
when  the  face  was  in  repose.  He  received  the  actor  with 
perfect  courtesy,  which  soon  deepened  into  anxious  in- 
terest and  that  strange,  rapid  intimacy  born  of  trouble. 
Hugo  could  not  by  any  possibility  have  selected  a  better 
messenger  than  the  great  tragedian.  He  told  his  tale 
with  a  simple  directness,  with  a  vividness  of  description, 
with  an  absence  of  personal  comment,  but  with  a  living 
sympathy  which  was  irresistible.  Sidney  was  deeply 
moved,  nor  did  he  even  for  a  moment  take  a  harsh  view  of 
Hugo's  fall.  The  difficulty  and  the  struggle  he  had  long 
foreseen,  the  failure  he  had  half-feared,  but  he  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  215 

prophetic  consciousness  that  such  a  nature  as  Hugo's 
would  not  forever  lie  in  slavery. 

"  You  will  send  him  the  word  of  counsel  he  craves  ?" 
said  the  actor. 

"Nay,  rather,  I  will  see  him  myself,"  said  Sidney, 
quickly.  "  Would  that  I  could  lay  hands  on  that  caitiff 
brother  of  his,  and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  'Tis 
passing  strange  what  divers  shoots  spring  from  the  same 
stem." 

And  he  smiled  rather  bitterly,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  the 
grave  differences  which  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
strife  and  contention  between  him  and  both  his  brothers. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Betterton,  "but  will  not  a  visit  from 
you  be  a  source  of  mutual  danger  ?  To  bring  you  into 
any  risk  would  be  small  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Sidney,  "I  spoke  hastily;  forget- 
ting that  we  live  in  an  age  which  maketh  truth  pass  for 
treason.  Ay,  I  must  not  visit  him,  'twould  make  his  lot 
harder.  Yet,  poor  lad,  I  would  fain  have  spoken  with 
him.  Hugo  is  one  of  those  who  are  over-pure  for  the  age 
they  live  in,  and  from  Him  of  Nazareth  onward,  life  is 
hard  with  such." 

"  If  there  be  aught  that  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  bearing 
message  or  letter,  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,"  said 
Betterton. 

"I  am  very  sensible  of  your  courtesy,"  said  Sidney. 
"  Perchance  that  were  the  best  way,  at  least  till  the  worst 
of  this  panic  has  passed  by.  I  will  write  to  him  at  once, 
for,  indeed — carpe  diem — who  can  tell  but  that  I  may  be 
even  as  he  ere  the  sun  goes  down." 

He  smiled  sadly,  but  with  the  calmness  of  one  who  has 
passed  a  life-time  in  constant  risks  and  perils. 

"  You  deem  yourself  indeed  in  clanger,  sir  ?"  asked  Bet- 
terton, marveling  at  the  serenity  with  which  such  words 
had  been  spoken. 

"  I  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  out  of  danger,  Mr. 
Betterton,  for  these  many  years,"  replied  Sidney.  "  "When 
I  only  looked  over  a  balcony  to  see  what  passed  at  the 
election  of  the  sheriffs  I  was  indicted  for  a  riot.  And  I  am 
well  informed  that,  had  the  Meal-Tub  Sham  succeeded,  I 
should  have  been  involved  in  it." 

"  Yet  such  a  scheme  would  have  sorted  ill  with  your 
likings,  sir." 

"  In  truth,  you  say  well,"  said  Sidney,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"As  I  told  his  majesty  at  Whitehall,  nothing  could  be 


216  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

more  repugnant  to  my  feeling  than  a  measure  which  must 
eventually  unite  the  Papists  and  the  crown.  But  he  that  is 
unpopular  must  not  look  for  justice  in  our  land.  For  such 
a  one  there  is  naught  but  exile.3 

"  Will  you  not  once  more  be  warned,  and  make  good  your 
escape  ?"  said  the  tragedian. 

"You  echo  the  words  that  my  faithful  valet  dins  into  my 
ears  day  and  night,"  said  Sidney.  "But  look  you,  Mr. 
Betterton,  I  am  growing  old,  and  I  am  weary  of  these  end- 
less precautions,  and  exile  is  hateful  to  me,  and  my  country 
overdear.  If  I  flee  I  shall  but  leave  my  heart  Behind  me. 
That  may  answer  at  five-and-twenty,  but  at  sixty  it  is  not 
so  well.  Now,  an  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  pen  a  note  to 
young  Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

jHe  sat  down  at  his  writing-table,  leaving  the  actor. time 
for  a  further  study  of  the  room  and  its  owner,  thid  daunt- 
less patriot,  whose  lot  it  had  been  to  win  the  undying 
hatred  of  the  court  party,  the  fear  of  all  half-hearted  and 
timid  men,  and  the  fervent,  devoted  love  of  a  very  few. 
Presently  he  drew  forth  his  purse,  examining  its  contents 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  find  it  lighter 
than  might  be  wished.  He  had,  in  truth,  known  what  it 
was  to  be  "poor  even  to  misery,"  and  though  at  present 
able  to  live  upon  the  small  sum  which  his  father  had  left 
him,  and  which  after  long  legal  disputes,  had  at  length 
been  pronounced  his,  he  would  fain  have  sent  much  more 
substantial  help  to  Hugo  than  was  at  all  within  his  power. 

"  You  will  then  kindly  be  the  bearer  of  this  letter  and 
purse,"  he  said,  turning  to  Betterton.  "  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you  for  your  help.  As  to  the  purse,  he  must  accept 
it  as  from  a  father.  I  see  plainly  enough  that  his  brother's 
aim  will  be  to  keep  him  in  such  sore  discomfort  that  he 
shall  at  length  succumb  and  own  what  he  knows.  Tell 
him  he  must  use  the  money  to  defeat  that  unjust  end,  so 
will  his  independence  not  be  wounded  or  his  pride  of- 
fended." 

Then,  with  a  few  more  words  of  gratitude,  a  last  message 
for  Hugo,  a  finely  turned  compliment  which,  for  all  his  or- 
dinary bluutness  of  speech,  proved  the  republican  to  be  a 
polished  man  of  the  world,  Betterton  found  his  mission 
ended,  and  the  interview  over. 

After  he  had  left  the  house,  Sidney  paced  to  and  fro  in 
his  study  for  some  time,  wrapped  in  anxious  thought. 
Hugo  was  very  much  upon  his  mind,  for  he  felt  a  great 
responsibility  for  him,  knowing  well  how  large  a  shaVe  he 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  217 

had  had  in  forming  his  character  and  his  opinions.  Bet- 
terton's  description  of  the  prisoner  returned  to  him  again 
and  again,  and  ever  with  afresh  pang  of  sorrow  and  regret. 
There  was  something  indescribably  mournful  to  him  in  the 
thought  of  that  young  life  doomed  to  long  imprisonment. 
After  a  while  Ducasse  entered  and  began  to  lay  the  table  for 
the  one-o'clock  dinner,  and  Sidney  sat  down  and  began  to 
eat,  more  to  please  the  faithful  servant  than  because  he  had 
any  appetite.  Troubles  were  thickening  day  by  day,  and 
he  was  heavy  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  Ducasse,  "  I  could  have  made  you  a  bet- 
ter omelet  than  this,  an  we  were  once  more  in  France." 

"  All  things  are  best  there  in  my  mind,  from  thy  master 
down  to  eggs  and  poultry,"  said  Sidney,  smiling.  "But  I 
am  growing  old,  Ducasse,  and  would  fain  end  my  days  here, 
even  though  things  right  themselves  but  slowly  in  our 
foggy  island." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  valet,  "  'tis  ever  '  the  land,  the  land/ 
you  speak  of.  But  of  what  use  is  the  land,  if  monsieur's 
countrymen  will  but  give  him  a  six-foot  strip  in  a  cemetery, 
or  perchance  so  much  as  will  serve  for  a  prison-cell.  Ah, 
sir,  think  of  yourself,  and  flee  while  yet  there  is  time." 

"But,  look  you,  Joseph,  in  France  I  do  but  vegetate  to 
no  profit.  Whereas  here  I  may  perchance  serve  my  coun- 
try, if  free,  in  a  hundred  ways  ;  if  in  prison,  as  an  en- 
sample  to  future  ages  ;  if  on  the  scaffold,  as  one  of  the 
martyrs  from  whose  blood  shall  spring  one  day  our  true 
republic." 

"  Ah,  sir,  it  is  of  yourself  that  I  think,"  said  the  valet, 
sadly. 

"  Thou  art  but  a  Frenchman,  after  all,  Joseph  ?  Yet, 
methinks,  after  these  long  years  we  have  lived  together, 
thou  shouldst  know  me  better,"  said  Sidney,  smiling. 
"Hark!  there  is  a  knock  without.  Go,  see  who  calls.  I 
have  as  little  stomach  for  visitors  as  for  my  dinner  this 
morning." 

Ducasse  left  the  room,  and  Sidney  let  his  knife  and  fork 
lie  idle  for  a  minute,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  the  air 
of  one  who  is  glad  for  once  to  be  free  from  even  friendly 
inspection,  An  intense  quietness  reigned  in  the  room—- 
one of  those  timeless  pauses  which  occur  sometimes  in 
life  ;  for  the  moment  his  brain  was  at  rest,  his  anxious 
thoughts  were  lulled  ;  a  breath  of  soft  warm  June  air  floated 
in  from  the  open  window,  and  gave  him  a  distinct 
feeling  of  pleasure;  a  bee  went  buzzing  about  the  room, 


218  IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  finally  settled  upon  his  plate.  Outside  there  were 
voices,  but  he  did  not  heed  them;  outside  \yere  steps — 
but  what  then  ?  Ducasse,  perhaps,  had  not  been  able  to 
get  rid  of  some  importunate  visitor.  The  door  was  thrown 
open;  he  glanced  round.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  The  valet 
stood  there  with  blanched  face,  and  announced  nobody, 
yet  the  footsteps  drew  nearer,  an  officer  entered,  bowed 
slightly,  advanced,  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

All  at  once  that  strange  hush  was  broken;  the  stillness, 
the  calm,  the  timeless  pause  ended,  and  the  room  seemed 
in  a  tumult,  above  which  there  rang,  sharply  and  grating- 
ly, the  words, 

"  Algernon  Sidney,  I  arrest  thee,  in  the  king's  name,  on 
a  charge  of  high  treason." 

With  a  swift  pang  he  realized  that  the  minute  of  intense 
stillness  had  been  his  last  minute  of  freedom  in  this  world, 
and  involuntarily  his  eyes  followed  the  bee,  as,  alarmed  by 
the  noise  and  the  sudden  intrusion  of  officers  and  men,  it 
flew  noisily  round  the  room  and  out  beyond  through  the 
open  window. 

A  fresh  knock  without,  and  yet  another  unwelcome  visi- 
tor. Sir  Philip  Lloyd  entered,  greeting  the  prisoner 
courteously  enough. 

"  I  have  an  order,  Mr.  Sidney,  to  seize  all  papers  found 
within  your  house,"  he  said.  "And  I  must,  therefore, 
search  the  premises." 

Sidney  bowed  acquiescence. 

"  Lay  covers  for  two,"  he  said,  turning  to  Ducasse, 
"These  gentlemen  will  dine  with  me — unless" — turning 
to  Sir  Philip  Lloyd — "you.  think  it  not  meet  to  take  salt 
with  one  arrested  on  such  a  charge  ?" 

There  was  a  sort  of  veiled  irony  in  his  tone,  but  the 
officers  could  not  well  refuse  his  hospitality,  and  the  strange 
trio  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  Ducasse  waited  on  them, 
having  much  ado  to  keep  his  eyes  clear  enough  to  see  the 
plates  and  dishes.  Every  one,  save  the  republican  him- 
self, seemed  embarrassed.  Throughout  the  meal  he  main- 
tained a  stately  composure,  talking  with  the  officers  as 
thougn  they  had  been  ordinary  guests,  and  apparently 
doing  hisbest  to  set  them  at  their  ease.  Perhaps,  however, 
their  abashed  manner  was  not  altogether  ungrateful  to  him, 
and  he  was  quite  human  enough  to  enjoy  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  master  of  the  situation. 

Dinner  over,  Sir  Philip  Lloyd,  nothing  loath,  set  about 
the  more  congenial  task  of  searching  the  house.  What 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  219 

papers  there  were,  however,  were  all  in  the  study,  and, 
after  a  vain  quest  in  the  upper  regions,  he  returned,  and 
began  to  ransack  the  drawers  and  cupboards  of  an  oaken 
cabinet,  while  his  men  seized  upon  the  papers  lying  on  the 
writing-table,  and  stowed  them  away  with  the  others  in  the 
open  trunk  and  the  pillow-beer. 

This  part  of  the  proceedings  tried  Sidney's  patience 
considerably.  His  dark  eyes  flashed  as  he  noted  the  seiz- 
ure by  these  strangers  of  all  that  was  most  private  to  him. 
Ducasse  could  see  that  his  master  had  much  ado  to  keep 
back  a  torrent  of  angry  remonstrance.  He  held  his  peace, 
however,  sitting  somewhat  rigidly  in  his  high-backed 
chair  at  the  dinner-table,  and  only  following  every  move- 
ment with  lynx  eyes. 

At  length  Sir  Philip  had  made  what  selection  of  papers 
he  deemed  fit,  a  cord  wras  placed  round  both  the  trunk  and 
the  pillow-beer,  and  Ducasse  was  despatched  for  wax  and 
candle.  The  men  dragged  forward  the  heavy  package. 

"  Bring  the  light  hither,"  said  Sir  Philip  ;  and  the  valet, 
doing  as  he  was  bid,  held  the  wax  and  the  light  close  to 
his  master. 

"  What  is  this  for  ?"  asked  Sidney,  with  a  shade  of 
hauteur  in  his  tone. 

"  I  desire  that  you  put  your  seal  upon  these  papers,  Mr. 
Sidney,  said  Sir  Philip.  "  They  shall  not  be  opened  but 
in  your  presence." 

Sidney  drew  the  signet-ring  from  his  finger,  but  then 
hesitated.  Had  not  something  of  this  sort  passed  at 
Colonel  Mansell's  rooms,  when  he  was  accused  of  com- 
plicity in  the  Meal-Tub  plot  ?  And  had  not  those  who 
searched  contrived  to  slip  a  treasonable  paper  in  among 
the  private  documents  ? 

"You  will  affix  your  seal  in  this  place,"  said  Sir  Philip, 
in  a  voice  of  authority,  and  indicating  the  knotted  cord. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Sidney,  with  asperity.  And,  while  every  one  stared  at 
him,  he  put  his  ring  on  again  with  great  Calmness  and  de- 
liberation. 

Sir  Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looking  but  ill 
pleased,  put  his  own  seal  upon  the  cord. 

"  As  you  please,  Mr.  Sidney,"  he  said,  coldly.  "  We  did 
but  consult  your  own  convenience.  A  coach  is  in  waiting, 
and  we  must  make  no  further  delay,  since  you  are  to  be 
examined  before  the  Privy  Council," 

Sidney  bowed. 


220  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.   . 

"My  bat  and  cloak,  Joseph."  Then  as  the  valet  returned, 
be  spoke  a  few  words  of  gratitude  and  affection  to  him  in 
his  native  tongue,  grasped  his  hand,  bade  him  Godspeed, 
and  turned  abruptly  toward  his  captors.  "  Gentlemen,  I  am 
ready.  Bear  me  whither  you  will." 

CHAPTER  XXHI. 

A  MIDNIGHT  ESCAPE. 

I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 
Nor  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt ; 
The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  effected  : 
A  staff  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

King  Henry  VI. 

"  JOYCE,  my  love,  your  father  would  speak  with  you," 
said  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  softly  opening  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room shared  by  Joyce  and  little  Evelyn,  and  closing  it  as 
softly  behind  her. 

The  household  had  retired  as  usual,  and  it  had  been 
deemed  prudent  to  tell  none  of  the  servants,  save  the  old 
nurse,  that  Colonel  WLarucliffe  intended  that  night  to 
make  his  escape.  A  secret  shared  among  many  is  always 
in  danger  of  being  betrayed,  and  faithful  devotion  to  a 
master  does  not  always  inspire  prudence,  or  entirely  crush 
the  love  of  gossip. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock,  but  Joyce  knowing  that  she 
should  be  summoned  ere  long,  had  made  no  preparations 
for  the  night.  She  stood  at  the  open  casement,  looking 
out  into  the  twilight  garden,  her  arms  resting  on  the  sill, 
and  her  face  propped  between  both  Lands.  Without,  all 
was  wonderfully  still;  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  tall, 
dark  elms,  no  nightingale's  song  broke  the  silence,  no 
wakeful  bird  stirred  in  its  nest,  no  sound  of  human  life 
fell  upon  the  ear.  A  heavy  dew  had  fallen,  there  was  a 
delicious,  balmy  freshness  in  the  air  which  made  breath- 
ing itself  a  delight,  and  from  far-distant  fields  was  wafted 
the  fragrance  of  the  newly  cut  hay.  The  calmness  of  nature 
no  longer  irritated  Joyce  as  it  had  done  on  the  previous 
morning,  when  she  had  run  out  to  sink  the  book  in  the 
moat.  Since  then  she  had  lived  through  so  much  that  all 
her  thoughts  and  perceptions  were  changed;  she  Lad 
passed  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  had  learned  what 
it  was  both  to  love  and  to  hate.  Since  then,  moreover,  she 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  peace  which  remains  unbrok- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  221 

en,  in  spite  of  earthly  tumult  and  strife,  and  the  peaceful 
summer  night  seemed  to  her  a  type  of  the  Infinite  and 
Eternal. 

She  had  been  crying,  but  she  dried  her  tears  hastily  on 
hearing  her  mother's  voice,  and  when  she  turned  round  a 
sudden  smile  of  delight  shone  in  her  eyes,  for  she  saw  to 
her  astonishment  that  the  door  had  again  been  softly 
opened  and  her  father  himself  stood  there. 

"  I  want  a  few  words  with  you,  little  daughter,"  he  said 
quietly,  stooping  to  kiss  her  forehead  as  he  spoke.  "  We 
will  come  together  to  the  south  parlor  ;  but  first  I  will  bid 
Evelyn  farewell.  No,  do  not  rouse  her,  'tis  better  she 
should  sleep,  poor  little  maid." 

Joyce  had  to  walk  to  the  window  once  more  that  she 
might  furtively  wipe  her  eyes,  while  her  father  and  mother 
bent  over  the  little  sleeping  child.  When  she  looked 
round  again,  she  saw  her  father  kneel  down  for  an  in- 
stant beside  Evelyn  ;  he  kissed  her  rosy  cheek,  her  hair, 
her  little  uncovered  arm,  then  he  rose  quietly,  put  his  arm 
round  his  wife,  and  led  the  way  through  the  dark  and 
silent  house,  Joyce  stealing  after  them  with  a  full  heart. 
Slowly  and  noiselessly  they  made  their  way  down  the 
broad  oak  staircase  with  its  many  turns,  Joyce  counting 
the  familiar  steps  in  each  flight  lest  she  should  stumble 
and  make  a  noise  ;  then  on  through  the  ghostly  looking 
hall  with  its  white  flagstones  and  its  dusky  gallery,  and  its 
haunting  recollections  of  the  previous  day.  Joyce 
shuddered  and  crept  closer  to  her  mother,  wondering  if 
those  terrible  sounds  would  always  torment  her  as  she 
passed  by.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  in  the  light  and  warmtli 
of  the  south  parlor  ;  it  was  a  relief  to  be  quite  alone  with 
her  father,  for  Mrs.  Wharnclifie  left  them,  having  many 
preparations  to  make. 

For  a  minute  Colonel  Wharncliffe  did  not  speak.  He 
found  that  the  words  he  intended  to  have  spoken  to  Joyce 
would  not  come  readily  to  his  lips.  How  could  he  tell  this 
child  that  she  was  much  too  young  to  know  her  own  mind, 
when  all  the  time  she  was  raising,  to  his,  eyes  which  were 
full  of  a  strange  new  depth  and  tenderness  ?  How  could 
he  say  that  love  was  not  for  her  yet  a  while  when  love  had 
already  added  womanly  dignity  to  the  child-like  face?  In- 
stead, his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  far  past. 

"  Thou  art  just  like  thy  mother,  little  maid,"  he  said, 
stroking  the  soft,  rounded  cheek  tenderly.  "And  so  thy 
kinsman  hath  told  thee  of  his  love;  is  it  not  so?" 


222  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"Ay,  father.^ 

"  And  what  did  my  daughter  say  when  he  told  her  ?" 

"  I  kissed  him,  father." 

Colonel  "Wharncliffe  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"And  didst  own  thy  love  ?" 

"Ay,  father,  I  did  say  I  loved  him;  it  was  the  truth," 
said  Joyce,  blushing  vividly. 

"Ah,  my  little  maid,"  said  the  father,  drawing  her  closer 
to  him,  "  dost  realize  that  love  brings  pain  with  it  ?  An 
thou  givest  away  thy  heart  thus  early,  thou  canst  never 
again  play  light-hearted  and  free  like  thy  sisters." 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  free,  father;  this  is  better,"  said 
Joyce,  shyly,  yet  with  a  certain  sweet  decision  in  her  tone. 

"God  help  you,  poor  child;  I  see  but  a  sad  time  before 
you  !"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "Say  that  I  make 
my  escape  now,  and  stay  abroad  till  the  danger  is  past  and 
the  country  at  rest  again,  that  will  avail  naught  to  lessen 
Randolph's  hatred.  Nothing  can  free  me  from  his  enmity, 
nothing  can  save  Hugo  from  his  brother's  wrath  so  long  as 
he  shields  me  by  silence." 

"But  Hugo  never  thought  it  would  be  otherwise,  father," 
said  Joyce,  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice.  "  He  has  never 
expected  aught  besides;  nor  have  I." 

"And  thus  my  little  maid  hath  half  plighted  herself  to  a 
life  of  sorrow  and  trouble." 

"  Nay,  but  to  Hugo,"  she  replied,  with  a  thrill  of  eager- 
ness in  her  voice  which  did  not  escape  the  father's  notice. 
"  Not  to  sorrow,  but  to  him,  and  afterward  let  come  what 
will." 

Very  sadly  he  watched  the  sweet,  eager  face,  with  its 
light  of  love  and  devotion  ;  he,  with  his  fatherly  desire  to 
see  her  happy,  free  from  care,  and  in  perfect  safety  ;  he, 
with  his  manly  longing  to  shield  her  from  danger  and 
suffering,  could  not  understand  that  the  long  vista  of  pain 
and  uncertainty  did  not  in  the  least  daunt  her — seemed, 
on  the  contrary,  rather  to  stimulate  her  love.  For  Joyce 
was  a  true  woman,  and  the  crown  of  a  woman's  love  is  the 
bearing  of  pain  for  and  with  the  one  she  loves. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  At  length  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  spoke. 

"  Child,"  he  said,  "  I  can  not  see  before  me  ;  all  is  blank 
mist  save  this  one  step  which  I  must  take  ere  morn,  to 
leave  home  and  country.  I  can  see  no  future  for  myself 
or  for  you,  and  do  I  try  to  think  and  scheme  for  you  and 
the  rest  my  fears  distract  me.  My  life  is  in  peril,  and,  if 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  223 

I  were  dead,  I  know  not  what  might  Jbecome  of  you,  chil- 
dren. I  believe  that  Hugo  would  strive  to  make  you  a 
good  and  worthy  husband.  But,  Joyce,  times  are  evil  ; 
nay,  child,  thy  pure  heart  can  not  see  the  perils  that  I 
know  of.  I  am  saying  naught  against  thy  lover,  but  the 
times  are  evil,  and  he  hath  been  overmuch  at  "Whitehall." 

"  Yet  would  he  never  take  me  to  the  court.  Long  ago 
he  said  that.  He  said  after  the  duel  it  were  no  fit  place  for 
me." 

"  Hugo  may  not  be  able  to  help  it,"  said  the  colonel.  "A 
king's  commands  are  not  lightly  neglected.  The  world  is 
an  evil  place,  and  my  little  white  country -rose,  for  all  her 
whiteness,  might  get  sullied  with  the  foul  atmosphere  of 
the  court.  Joyce" — he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  held 
them  fast — "  Joyce,  my  child,  if  ever  temptation  should 
come  to  you,  remember  this  :  the  love  of  your  father 
and  mother  may  shield  you  from  much,  and  the  love  of 
your  husband  may  shield  you  from  more,  but  there  is 
no  invincible  shield  save  the  love  of  God  himself." 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  trembled  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Nay,  sweet,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  "  I 
meant  not  to  affright  thee.  Tremble  not.  That  is  invin- 
cible." 

After  that  no  word  passed  between  them  for  some  time, 
but  in  the  silence  Joyce  learned  many  things,  little  dream- 
ing that  the  father  whose  strong  arm  encircled  her  was 
learning  too,  and  perchance  a  harder  lesson. 

'  Thou  wilt  take  care  of  thy  mother  while  I  am  away,"  he 
said,  after  a  time.  "  She  will  need  fresh  help  and  comfort 
in  many  ways.  Let  that  be  thy  charge,  little  Joyce.  Do 
thou  be  her  sunshine  while  I  am  gone." 

"Evelyn  would  shine  better,"  said  Joyce,  doubtfully. 

"  And  thou  wouldst  then  let  the  clouds  gather  in  peace," 
said  the  colonel,  smiling.  "  Nay,  I  would  fain  leave  thee 
as  thy  mother's  special  helper  ;  so  will  two  birds  be  killed 
with  one  stone,  as  the  proverb  hath  it,  and  my  little  daugh- 
ter will  not  let  herself  pine  away  in  a  green-and-yellow 
melancholy." 

Joyce  smiled  faintly. 

"  And  you  will  send  for  us  ere  long  ?"  she  said.  "  Why 
should  not  we  be  with  you  in  Holland?"  Then,  remember- 
ing that  Holland  was  further  from  Newgate  than  Mondis- 
field,  would  fain  have  unsaid  her  words. 

The  father  read  it  all  in  her  face,  and  felt  a  sharp  stab 


224  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.' 

of  pain.  How  absolutely  in  that  brief  time  she  had  given 
her  heart  away !  It^liurt  him  a  little,  even  while  he  rec- 
ognized that  it  was  both  natural  and  inevitable. 

"  I  can  not  tell  how  that  may  be,"  he  said.  "  I  can  not 
see  any  future  ;  we  must  be  content  to  leave  it  a  blank." 

Poor  Joyce!  the  words  struck  to  her  heart  with  a 
deathly  chill.  No  future !  and  such  a  heart-breaking 
present !  The  thought  of  Hugo  faded  a  little  in  her  mind, 
and  she  remembered  only  that  her  father  was  going  forth 
alone  to  brave  the  perils  of  the  way,  that  she  might  per- 
haps never  see  him  again,  and  that  but  now  she  had 
grudged  the  thought  of  sharing  his  exile. 

"  Take  me  with  you,  father,"  she  sobbed,  clinging  to  him 
like  a  frightened  child.  "  Go  not  alone  thus — take  me 
with  you." 

"  Bless  thee  for  the  thought,  sweet  one,  but  it  may  not 
be,"  he  said,  caressing  her.  Then,  as  his  wife  returned  to 
the  room,  "  Dear  heart,  I  shall  leave  you  with  Joyce  as  my 
deputy;  Joyce  is  to  be  her  mother's  special  child  till  my 
return.  What !  is  all  ready  ?  Then  let  us  be  going.  Delay 
doth  but  make  things  harder." 

Outside  in  the  passage  a  lamp  stood  on  an  old  wooden 
chest,  and  beside  it  the  saddle-bags  and  the  valise  which  the 
colonel  was  to  take  with  him.  Betty,  Damaris,  Frances, 
and  Robina  were  in  waiting,  cloaked  and  hooded,  and  Bet- 
ty came  and  tied  on  Joyce's  blue  hood  for  her,  and  took 
the  little  sister's  cold  hand  in  hers  as  they  followed  their 
father  and  mother  down  the  drive,  across  the  moat,  and 
into  the  stable-yard. 

Bobina  ran  on  quickly  that  she  might  speak  to  and 
quiet  the  old  watch-dog  ;  then  assured  that  Nettle  would 
not  betray  them,  followed  her  sisters  into  the  stable,  where 
with  Frances  to  hold  the  lantern,  the  other  three  girls  sad- 
dled their  father's  horse.  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  standing 
in  the  door- way  with  his  wife,  watched  the  scene  with  a  sore 
heart  ;  the  dusky  stable  with  its  high  roof  lost  in  shadow, 
the  patient  steed,  tlie  lantern  held  up  high  by  one  of  the 
dack-robed  girls,  and  shedding  its  yellow  light  on  the 
others  as  they  deftly  arranged  saddle  and  bridle.  He 
fancied  that  the  brightest  gleam  of  all  fell  upon  Joyce, 
revealing  the  sweet  face  with  overbright  eyes  and  tremu- 
lous lips  ;  she  was  working  away  at  straps  and  buckles 
with  a  nervous  energy,  which  strove  to  banish  the  thought 
of  the  parting — but  the  parting  had  to  come. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  225 

Ere  long  the  good  steed  was  ready,  and  Kobina  led  him 
carefully  out  into  the  yard  beneath  the  tall  elm  trees. 

"  With  Merlin's  help,"  said  the  colonel,  stroking  the 
glossy  mane  of  his  horse,"  I  ought  to  be  at  Harwich  not 
long  after  sunrise  ;  and  at  Harwich  there  will,  I  think,  be 
small  difficulty  in  getting  a  ship  to  Amsterdam.  Fare- 
well, dear  heart.  Keep  up  your  courage,  and  be  not 
troubled  if  you  do  not  hear  from  me.  Trust  me  to  write 
by  the  first  opportunity." 

After  that  no  one  spoke.  In  dead  silence  he  embraced 
them,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  out  into  the  night. 
Those  who  were  left  behind  stood  quite  still — no  one 
stirred,  no  one  cried  ;  they  just  waited  there,  listening 
with  painful  intentness  to  the  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs, 
gradually  growing  fainter  and  more  faint.  At  length  they 
all  knew  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  wait  for;  the  last 
sound  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  summer  wind 
stirring  in  the  elm-trees  seemed  like  a  deep,  sudden  sigh,  as 
though  Mondisf&ld  knew  that  its  master  had  gone  forth 
into  exile.  Then  one  long,  quivering,  half-restrained  sigh 
escaped  the  mother,  and  she  was  glad  to  feel  a  little  soft 
hand  steal  into  hers.  Were  not  her  children  left  to  her — 
doubly  left  ?  She  must  live  for  them ! 

"  Come,  my  children,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  Close  the 
stable  door,  Damaris,  and  let  us  go  back  to  bed.  Nurse 
shall  bring  you  all  a  sack-posset." 

So  they  went  back  to  the  deserted  house,  and  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  rode  on  toward  Harwich,  well  knowing  that 
many  perils  beset  his  path. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AT   THE   NATIONAL   THANKSGIVING. 

With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails, 
More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love. 

King  Henry  VI. 

THE  summer  had  passed,  and  the  house  in  Norfolk 
Street,  which  had  been  closed  for  long  months,  owing  to 
the  absence  of  the  family,  once  more  began  to  show  signs 
of  life.  Shutters  were  thrown  back,  windows  opened,  and 
in  due  time  the  old  family  coach  rolled  up  to  the  door,  to 
the  delight  of  three  dirty  little  boys,  who  left  off  playing 
with  the  mud  in  the  gutter  to  watch  the  arrival  of  the  grand- 


226  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ees — Rupert,  resplendent  in  sad-colored  cloth  faced  with 
green  velvet,  old  Lady  Merton,  Sir  William's  sister,  and 
lastly  Mary,  who  had  been  by  no  means  sorry  to  leave  the 
country  and  return  under  Lady  Merton's  guardianship  to 
London.  Sir  William  and  Lady  Denham  had  gone  to  Bath 
and  were  not  to  return  till  Sir  William's  gout  had  been 
cured. 

Letters  were  rare  in  those  days,  and  yet  Mary  had  been 
filled  with  an  uneasy  wonder  that  the  long  summer  months 
had  brought  no  news  of  Hugo.  The  whole  family  had  left 
London  soon  after  Randolph  and  Hugo  had  gone  to  Long- 
bridge  Hall,  and  no  one  had  heard  from  either  of  the 
brothers  since.  True,  Lady  Merton's  lonely  old  manor 
house  in  Warwickshire  was  so  remote  that  one  never  did 
expect  any  news  there  ;  but  the  vague  rumors  as  to  the 
Rye  House  Plot,  and  the  curious  silence  on  Hugo's  part, 
had  troubled  Mary  not  a  little.  More  than  once  she  pon- 
dered over  that  strange  confession  he  had  made  to  her  in 
the  preceding  autumn,  more  than  once  she  wondered  how 
the  case  of  conscience  he  had  put  to  her  could  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  himself  and  Randolph. 

Following  her  aunt  up  the  broad  stone  steps  and  into 
the  somewhat  dingy  passage  beyond  she  saw  in  an  in- 
stant that  upon  the  marble  table  outside  the  parlor  door 
lay  a  letter  directed  in  Hugo's  clear  but  rather  cramped 
handwriting. 

"  To  Rupert  Denham,  esquire, 

Alt  His  House  in  Norfolk  Street." 

"Did  Mr.  Wharncliffe  leave  this  to-day?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  old  Thomas,  the  butler  with  whom  she  was  a 
great  favorite. 

"  Mr.  Wharneliffe,  mistress !  "  said  the  old  man,  raising 
his  eyebrows.  "  'Twas  not  Mr.  Wharneliffe  who  brought 
it.  'Twas  one  day  last  July,  and  one  of  the  sour-faced 
Puritan  ministers  brought  it  to  the  door.  I  took  him  to 
be  a  Muggletonian,  for  he  had  the  ways  of  them.'' 

rf  How  ?  "  asked  Mary,  forgetting  her  anxiety  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Why,  mistress,  I  did  but  keep  him  a  few  minutes  on 
the  step,  and  he  had  but  knocked  three  times,  and,  when 
he  taxed  me  with  not  minding  my  business  better,  I  made 
bold  to  tell  him  he'd  do  well  to  mind  his;  whereupon  he 
damped  me  to  all  eternity." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  227 

Mary  laughed. 

"  Perchance  it  was  Muggle«on  himself.  What  said  you 
to  him,  Thomas  ?  " 

"Why,  mistress,  I  said  that  would  be  as  the  Lord 
pleased,  and  reminded  him,  as  the  proverb  hath  it — 'Cusses 
come  home  to  roost.'  I  thought  its  letter  might  bide  its 
time,  knowing  that  Mr.  Rupert  would  not  care  to  pay  for 
damnations  on  delivery,  for  I  made  sure  it  was  from  the 
minister  himself." 

Mary  longed  to  hear  the  contents  of  the  letter,  but  was 
obliged  to  show  Lady  Merton  to  the  guest-chamber,  and 
then  to  take  off  her  traveling-dress  and  put  on  her  white 
evening  gown,  that  she  might  not  show  any  indiscreet  de- 
sire for  news  of  Hugo,  awakening  thereby  her  aunt's  sus- 
picion and  Eupert's  love  of  teasing. 

She  thought  she  would  tell  Eupert  of  the  Muggleto- 
nian's  interview  with  the  butler,  and  then,  quite  compo- 
sedly and  casually,  ask  how  Hugo  had  come  to  employ  so 
strange  a  messenger.  But  when  she  entered  the  parlor, 
and  saw  her  cousin  standing  in  the  window  still  perusing 
the  letter,  something  in  his  face  changed  all  her  plans. 
For  Eupert,  the  merry,  careless,  light-hearted  cousin,  who 
was  never  grave  for  two  minutes  together,  was  reading  the 
letter  with  an  expression  of  such  deep  concern  on  his  face 
as  she  had  never  before  seen. 

"  What  is  it,  Eupert  ?"  she  asked,  breathlessly.  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?" 

He  looked  up,  and  she  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"  'Tis  from  Hugo,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  He  has  got  into 
trouble  over  this  cursed  plot—he  is  in  Newgate." 

"In  Newgate!"  she  repeated,  faintly,  "Hugo  in  New- 
gate !" 

"  Ay,  of  all  folk  under  the  sun !"  cried  Kupert,  passion- 
ately. "  Or  rather  he^  was  there  months  ago — may  be  yet 
alive  perchance.  Oh,  why  did  that  old  fool  forget  to  send 
me  the  letter?" 

"  He  knew  not  it  was  from  Hugo,  'twas  brought  hither 
by  some  Muggletonian,  who  offended  him.  I  suppose 
Thomas  kept  it  back  out  of  malice  to  the  bearer." 

Eupert  damned  poor  Thomas  even  more  vehemently  and 
explicitly  than  the  Muggletonian  had  done,  while  Mary 
caught  eagerly  at  the  first  sheet  of  the  letter,  and  read 
Hugo's  account  of  .what  had  passed  at  Mondisfield,  then, 
half  blinded  with  tears,  was  obliged  to  let  Eupert  make  out 


228  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

•the  rest,  which  he  did,  not  without  difficulty,  for  Hugo  had 
written  in  haste. 

"  Tidings  have  reached  me  this  day,"  he  read,  "that  Lord 
Russell  is  to  be  executed  for  the  plot,  Lord  Howard  of  Es- 
crick — said  to  be  one  of  the  cabal  of  six — having  saved  his 
own  neck  by  swearing  against  his  friend.  And,  Rupert, 
this  is  what  they  would  fain  have  me  do.  There  are  but 
two  ways  out  of  this  hell,  and  God  preserve  me  from  taking 
either  of  theml  I  must  betray  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  or  I 
must  promise  to  bear  witness  against  Colonel  Sidney. 

"  Yesternight  came  to  me  one  whom  I  take  to  be  an 
attorney,  and  urged  me  much  to  come  forward  at  Colonel 
Sidney's  trial  to  prove  his  disaffection  to  the  Govern- 
ment, first  seeking  to  entangle  me  by  skillfully  framed 
questions,  and  then  dealing  both  threats  and  promises 
of  reward.  Seeing  that  the  rewards  shall  never  be 
earned  by  me,  I  take  it  the  threats  will  be 
put  into  execution,  and  that,  belike,  I  shall  be  once  more 
thrust  into  yet  straiter  confinement.  Therefore  come 
to  me  as  soon  as  may  be,  for  at  preient  I  can  see  you 
being  in  that  part  of  Newgate  they  call  the  castle.  I 
have  written  boldly  come,  and  yet  perchance  you  will  not 
deem  it  fitting  to  visit  one  who  is  implicated  in  such  an 
affair.  However,  though  Sir  William  deems  himself  a 
Tory,  I  know  right  well  that  he  lets  not  affairs  of  state 
interfere  with  his  friendships,  else  had  he  not  been 
friends  with  Colonel  Sidney,  to  whom,  as  you  know,  he 
introduced  me  at  the  first,  even  while  warning  me  of  his 
views.  They  tell  me,  though,  that  the  whole  country  is 
stirred  by  this  so-called  plot,  and  I  know  not  how  far 
the  atmosphere  of  Norfolk  Street  may  be  changed, 
only  I  have  great  hope  that  friendship  will  be  over- 
strong  for  love  of  party,  and  that  YOU  will  come.  An  you 
love  me,  bring  me  what  news  there  is  of  Colonel  Sidney. 
Mr.  Betterton  saw  him  on  the  morning  of  his  arrest,  and 
brought  me  word  of  it.  Since  that  I  have  heard  naught. 
Nor  has  Jeremiah  made  any  answer  to  a  letter  which  Mr. 
Betterton's  man  was  to  bear  to  him,  from  which  it  seems 
to  me  most  like  that  Randolph  intercepted  the  said 
letter.  From  him  I  have  no  sign  whatever,  nor  am  like  to. 
Come  to  me  soon,  for  I  am  heavy-hearted,  and  methinks 
you  would  make  me  smile  even  in  jail.  My  duty  to  Sir 
William  and  Lady  Denham.  Tell  Mary  her  counsel  served 
me  well  in  the  sharpest  strait  of  all.  She  will  understand. 
I  am  in  a  cell  here  with  two  Nonconformists.  Griffith,  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  229 

one  I  like  the  best,  is  at  this  moment  discoursing  with  the 
notorious  Lodowick  Muggleton,  whom,  however,  I  must  not 
abuse,  since,  spite  of  all  my  errors,  he  hath  not  as  yet 
damned  me,  and  will  even,  out  of  charity,  bear  this  letter 
for  me,  and  deliver  it  into  your  keeping.  I  have  waited 
long  in  the  hope  of  some  such  opportunity.  The  con- 
troversy seems  drawing  to  an  end,  therefore,  must  this 
letter  do  so  also.  For  God's  sake  come  to  me,  and  if  pos- 
sible soon.  H.  W. 

"  Written  at  Newgate,  July  16,  1683." 

"  You  will  go  to  him  at  once  ?"  asked  Mary,  feeling  for 
the  first  time  that  her  womanhood  put  her  at  a  terrible 
disadvantage. 

"  Ay,"  he  replied,  "  at  once." 

"Then  take  this  with  you;"  she  puo  her  purse  into  his 
hand.  "  You  will  not  get  in  without  fees  to  the  turnkeys, 
and  perchance  he  may  be  in  need  of  money  himself." 

Rupert  did  not  refuse  the  purse,  for,  to  tell  the  truth, 
his  own  was,  as  usual,  inconveniently  light.  Mary's  money 
found  its  way  to  his  pocket  among  love-letters,  betting 
memoranda,  and  the  tortoise-shell  comb  with  which  he  kept 
his  periwig  in  order  in  society. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  her  to  see  him  start  off  at  once, 
and,  having  charged  him  with  whatever  message  she  ven- 
tured to  send,  she  stationed  herself  at  the  window  to  watch 
him  out  of  sight,  and  returning  again  and  again  to  her  post 
as  soon  as  she  deemed  it  possible  for  him  to  return. 

The  evening  seemed  interminable.  The  September 
twilight  deepened  into  night,  and  Thomas  brought  in  the 
lamp,  and  insisted  on  drawing  the  curtains;  she  could  no 
longer  keep  her  watch.  Lady  Merton,  tired  with  her  jour- 
ney, sent  down  a  message  that  she  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
Mary  sat  idly  in  the  great  chair  by  the  hearth,  apparently 
watching  old  Thomas  as  he  laid  the  table  for  supper,  but 
in  reality  thinking  of  Rupert's  visit  to  Newgate,  and  weary- 
ing for  his  return.  Thomas,  who  was  of  a  talkative  turn, 
thought  he  saw  an  opening  for  a  little  conversation. 

"  Sad  doings  in  London,  mistress,  since  you  went  away 
to  Warwickshire.  Sad  doings  we've  had." 

Mary  looked  up,  returning  from  her  reverie.  It  chafed 
her  to  feel  how  much  more  the  old  serving-man  probably 
knew  about  the  plot  than  she  did,  but  she  longed  so  much 
to  know  all  that  had  happened  that  she  swallowed  her 
pride,  and  asked  him  a  question  : 


230  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  We  heard  but  little  in  the  country—  only  vague  rumors 
about  the  plot,  and  then  that  Lord  Russell  had  been  exe- 
cuted. Have  you  heard  aught  of  Colonel  Sidney,  Thomas?" 

"  Ay,  indeed,  mistress.  His  man,  Joseph,  met  me  some 
four  weeks  or  more  agone,  and  I  made  bold  to  ask  him 
after  the  colonel.  You  must  know  that  on  the  second  of 
August  was  a  great  fire  in  the  Inner  Temple,  over  against 
the  great  gate  at  Whitefriars.  Three  staircases  were 
burned,  and  Sir  Thomas  Robinson,  of  the  Common  Pleas, 
he  leaped  out  of  window,  and  was  picked  up  dead  as  any 
stone.  Well,  mistress,  I  went  next  day  to  see  the  spot,  and 
there  among  the  crowd  I  espied  Colonel  Sidney's  French 
valet." 

"  And  what  said  he  of  his  master  ?" 

"  Why,  he  said  he  was  very  straitly  confined  in  the 
Tower,  and  that  they  dealt  most  severely  by  him,  so  that 
his  health  had  given  way.  They  would  let  him  see  no 
friends,  they  had  seized  all  his  goods  and  chattels,  nor 
would  they  permit  him  to  have  so  much  as  a  change  of 
linen.  However,  Ducasse  did  tell  me  that  his  master  meant 
to  petition  the  king  for  at  least  so  much  as  that." 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Her  thoughts  had  flown 
back  to  an  evening  less  than  a  year  before,  when  in  that 
very  room  Sidney  had  supped  with  them,  and  had  dis- 
coursed of  the  better  education  of  women,  and  how  she 
had  laughingly  offered  him  some  of  the  red-deer  pie  of  her 
own  making. 

Once  more  the  whole  scene  rose  before  her,  the  empty 
table  was  again  surrounded  by  the  cheerful  party,  the  re- 
publican colonel  leaned  back  in  one  of  the  chairs,  pro- 
pounding his  theories  of  life  ;  Hugo  sat  opposite  to  him, 
listening  with  reverential  attention;  Rupert  made  comical 
signs  of  disagreement;  Sir  William  and  Lady  Denham  lis- 
tened with  mild  amusement  and  well-bred  patience  to 
schemes  which  did  not  meet  with  their  approval.  Ah!  how 
safe  and  happy  they  had  all  been  then  !  And  now  one  of  the 
guests  lay  in  the  Tower  and  the  other  in  Newgate,  both  of 
them  in  the  gravest  danger,  both  of  them  enduring  untold 
hardships.  She  could  almost  have  smiled,  had  she  not 
baen  so  wrathfully  indignant  at  the  thought  of  the  proud 
republican  obliged  to  petition  the  king — and  such  a  king 
— for  permission  to  have  a  clean  shirfc. 

Thomas,  who  had  left  the  room  during  her  silence,  now 
returned,  bearing  a  small  box  in  his  hand. 

'•'  Ab,  mistress,"  he  said,  looking  cautiously  round  to  see 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  231 

that  no  one  else  was  near,  "  you  may  have  heard  little  in 
the  country,  but  we,  here  in  London,  have  perchance 
heard  too  much.  I  respects  my  master,  and  I  respects  Sir 
William's  views  and  opinions,  but  though  folk  may  say  an 
old  serving-man  should  think  with  his  master,  I  don't  hold 
with  such  sayings.  Mark  me,  mistress,  the  nation  won't 
stand  such  doings  as  there  have  been  much  longer.  Lord 
Russell  he  said  that  those  who  attacked  the  liberties  of 
England  would  have  to  wade  through  his  blood.  Well, 
God  rest  his  soul !  he  is  dead  and  gone,  but  his  blood  was 
not  shed  in  vain." 

He  opened  the  box  and  took  out  a  handkerchief,  one 
corner  of  which  bore  a  dark-red  stain.  Mary  looked  at  it 
and  shuddered. 

"  Ay,  mistress,"  continued  the  old  serving-man.  "  I  ever 
deemed  myself  a  loyal  subject,  but  now  my  eyes  are  opened, 
and  I  say  that  he  who  made  such  a  one  die,  when  all  the 
world  knew  he  was  innocent,  is  a  tyrant,  and  false  to  his 
country.  I  stood  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  mistress,  the  day 
of  Lord  Eussell's  execution,  and  I  saw  him  drive  up  with 
Dr.  Burnet,  brave  and  composed  as  could  be,  and,  as  I 
think,  singing  to  himself  in  an  undertone.  I  saw  him 
butchered,  mistress,  and  I  will  never  forget  it.  I  dipped 
this  handkerchief  in  his  blood,  as  a  token  to  hand  down  to 
my  children's  children;  and,  right  or  wrong,  every  one  of 
us  is  turned  against  his  majesty  from  that  day." 

"  I  feel  with  you,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low  voice.  "  But, 
Thomas,  be  cautious  in  what  you  say,  for  after  all  this  is 
my  uncle's  house,  and  we  are  bound  to  respect  his  feelings." 

Truth  to  tell,  Mary  had  long  ago  ceased  to  believe  in 
the  "  divine  right  of  kings,"  but  she  had  never  confessed 
it  to  any  one,  well  knowing  that  girls  of  twenty  were  not 
supposed  to  think  at  all  upon  such  matters. 

8 lie  asked  for  further  details  of  Lord  Russell's  trial  and 
death,  of  which  Thomas  gave  her  so  harrowing  a  descrip- 
tion that  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears.  Scarcely  had 
the  old  butler  withdrawn  from  the  room  when  steps 
sounded  in  the  street  without,  and  Rupert  opened  the 
front  door.  Mary  hurried  forward  to  meet  him,  an  eager 
question  on  her  lips. 

"'Tis  all  of  no  use,"  said  her  cousin,  wrathfully,  "they 
will  not  let  me  see  him." 

"  You  have  been  to  Newgate  ?"  said  Mary. 

"  Ay,  and  saw  the  governor.  He  admitted  that  Hugo 
was  there,  that  he  was  ill,  that  he  was  in  the  darkest  hole 


232  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

in  Newgate,  and  that  lie  had  lain  there  since  July,  being 
far  more  obstinate  than  they  had  reckoned  for.  I  tried  to 
bribe  him  to  let  me  see  him,  but  'twas  of  no  avail. 

" '  Not  if  you  offered  me  all  the  gold  in  the  Indies/  he 
said.  'The  court  has  an  eye  to  this  prisoner  ;  he  is  no 
common  case,  to  be  dealt  with  as  I  list.' 

"  '  The  court  will  defeat  its  own  ends  by  letting  him  pine 
to  death  in  a  dungeon,'  said  I. 

"  '  Men  don't  pine  to  death  so  easily  as  you  think  for/ 
said  the  governor,  laughing.  '  And  you  may  think  your- 
self lucky  for  being  spared  a  visit  to  a  pestilent  den,  where, 
likely  enough,  the  prisoner  would  refuse  to  speak  to  you, 
for  he  had  taken  to  silence  of  late.  The  more  men  would 
have  him  to  talk  the  more  he  persists  in  holding  his  tongue.' 

"  I  asked  what  his  illness  was,  whereupon  the  governor 
rang  a  bell,  and  in  came  a  jailer,  worse-looking  than  him- 
self, who,  in  presence  of  his  master,  gave  naught  but  surly 
answers  and  rough  jests. 

"  Could  you  not  have  seen  him  alone/'  said  Mary. 

"  Ay.  Afterward,  having  taken  leave  of  the  governor,  I 
managed,  by  the  aid  of  one  of  your  golden  guineas,  to 
secure  this  fellow  Scroop.  He  says  the  damp  of  the  dun- 
geon and  the  bad  food  have  made  him  ill  ;  he  couldn't  say 
how,  not  being  a  leech  himself.  I  gave  him  a  message  for 
Hugo,  but  he  would  not  promise  to  bear  it  him.  Bough 
and  coarse  as  he  was,  though,  he  is  better  than  the  gover- 
nor, though  he  looks  worse,  and  he  might  be  bribed." 

The  cousins  talked  together  far  into  the  night,  planning 
how  to  reach  Hugo. 

The  next  morning  all  London  was  ringing  with  the  sound 
of  church-bells,  for  it  was  the  9th  of  September,  the  day 
appointed  for  the  national  thanksgiving  for  the  king's  es- 
cape from  the  Eye  House  Plot.  Some  commotion  was 
caused  in  one  of  the  churches,  for  a  note  was  handed  in  to 
the  unsuspecting  reader  and  delivered  by  him  before  he 
had  fairly  gathered  the  drift  of  the  verse.*  The  astonished 
congregation,  who  had  come  to  return  thanks  for  his  maj- 
esty's deliverance,  listened  in  amazement  to  the  following 
lines : 

"You  hypocrites,  forbear  your  pranks, 
To  murder  men  and  then  give  thanks: 
Forbear  your  tricks,  pursue  no  further, 
For  God  accepts  no  thanks  for  murder." 


*  This  actually  happened.     See  "  Luttrell's  Journal. ' 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  233 

In  the  meantime  old  Thomas  quietly  made  his  way  home 
again,  and  Mary  Denham  was  not  sorry  to  avail  herself  oi 
the  large  green  fan  which  ladies  were  in  the  habit  of  taking 
with  them  to  church  to  screen  their  devotions. 

One  other  person  in  the  church  also  changed  color  from 
very  different  reasons.  Randolph's  face  grew  a  shade 
paler,  his  bitter  mouth  twitched  nervously  once  or  twice. 
Murder  was  an  ugly  word,  and  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
aiding  and  abetting  murder.  Then  again  there  was  Hugo. 
They  had  brought  him  word  that  he  was  ill,  and  he  had  re- 
joiced, thinking  that  there  was  the  greater  chance  of  gain- 
ing his  point  and  dragging  from  his  lips  the  desired  in- 
formation. But  if  Hugo  were  to  die? 

He  shuddered  at  that  thought.  And  the  thought  haunted 
him  persistently  all  through  the  service.  He  had  vowed 
that  he  would  not  see  his  brother  before  his  trial,  but  while 
the  old  clergyman  delivered  his  lengthy  discourse  Ran- 
dolph was  struggling  with  an  almost  unconquerable  long- 
ing that  had  suddenly  seized  him.  A  strong  desire  to  see 
Hugo  once  more  took  possession  of  him.  How  was  he  to 
justify  such  a  change  of  purpose  to  himself  ?  How  was  he 
to  permit  such  a  weakness  ?  In  truth,  the  better  part  of 
his  nature  was  striving  to  make  itself  felt,  and  to  escape 
from  the  thralldom  of  the  lower.  To  do  Randolph  justice, 
he  had  been  sufficiently  miserable  during  these  summer 
months,  and  this  day  his  misery  reached  its  climax. 
Something,  he  knew  not  what,  had  touched  into  life  the 
faint  love  which  yet  lingered  in  his  heart  for  Hugo.  If 
he  could  but  justify  this  desire  to  see  him  with  his  plans 
and  schemes!  And,  after  all,  it  would  defeat  these  said 
schemes  were  Hugo  to  die  in  jail,  and  was  he  prudent  to 
trust  entirely  to  the  word  of  an  ignorant  jailer?  Hrgo 
was  too  valuable  to  be  left  in  such  a  way.  It  would  be  in 
every  way  prudent  to  visit  him.  Having  thus  reconciled 
himself,  and  made  his  excuses  to  his  lower  nature,  he  lost 
no  time  in  making  his  way  to  Newgate,  where  no  difficulty 
was  made  about  admitting  him.  He  asked  a  question  or 
two  of  Scroop  as  the  jailer  led  him  along  the  ciieary  jcs- 
sages. 

"  Was  the  prisoner  better  ?  What  had  his  illness  been  ?" 
and  so  forth. 

"  You'll  judge  for  yourself,  sir,"  said  Scroop,  grimly.  "  I 
never  set  up  for  being  a  leech." 

"  But  is  he  yet  ill  ?"  asked  the  elder  brother,  with  more 
anxiety  in  his  voice  than  he  cared  to  betray. 


234  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Oh,  ay,  he's  ill  yet  awhile,  if  so  be  it  he's  alive,"  said 
Scroop  carelessly.  "  Have  a  care  how  you  walk,  sir,  these 
steps  is  slippery  with  the  damp." 

"  What !  is  it  down  here  !"  exclaimed  Randolph,  shud- 
dering. "  'Tis  enough  to  kill  him  in  good  sooth.  Why 
did  you  put  him  in  such  a  vile  hole  ?" 

"  I  did  but  obey  the  governor's  orders,  sir,  and  belike 
you  know  from  whom  he  received  them."  Scroop  looked 
sharply  back  at  his  companion  as  he  gave  utterance  to 
these  words.  He  was  pleased  to  see  Randolph  wince. 
"  Belike  you'll  not  care  to  remain  long,  sir;  I  will  but  lock 
you  in  with  the  prisoner  for  half  an  hour.  This  way,  sir, 
and  mind  your  head." 

So  saying,  he  fitted  one  of  his  keys  into  a  low  door,  un- 
locked it,  drew  back  the  bolts,  and  bade  the  visitor  walk 
in. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

RANDOLPH'S  REMORSE. 

Yea,  bless'd  is  he  in  life  and  death 
That  fears  not  death,  nor  loves  this  life  ; 
That  sets  his  will,  his  wit  beneath, 
And  hath  continual  peace  in  strife. 
That  doth  in  spite  of  all  debate 
Possess  his  soul  in  patience  ; 
And  pray,  in  love,  for  all  that  hate  ; 
And  hate  but  what  doth  give  offense. 

JOHN  DAVIES  (1612). 

RANDOLPH  made  a  step  or  two  forward,  cautiously  gro- 
ping his  way,  for  at  first  he  could  scarcely  discern  anything 
in  the  dim  light.  He  would  fain  have  kept  the  jailer  with 
him,  for  it  gave  him  an  unpleasant  feeling  to  be  locked 
into  this  dismal  dungeon,  where  all  was  silent  as  the  grave. 
Supposing  Hugo  were  actually  dead  ?  What  if  his  worst 
fears  were  realized. 

It  was  strange  that  he  made  no  sign,  for  his  eyes  must 
have  grown  accustomed  to  the  twilight.  The  floor  was 
rough  and  uneven,  in  many  places  covered  with  water 
nearly  an  inch  deep.  Randolph  splashed  straight  into  it, 
and  swore  half  a  dozen  oaths  as  the  chill  and  muddy 
stream  found  its  way  into  his  shoes.  But  soon  things 
grew  clear  to  him,  and  once  more  he  could  see  distinctly 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  235 

all  there  was  to  be  seen  in  the  bare  prison  cell.  Hugo, 
wrapped  in  a  dark-green  cloak,  lay  on  the  stony  bed  in 
the  corner;  his  white  face  and  hands,  gleaming  out  of  the 
dimness,  looked  so  deathly  that  Randolph,  with  an  excla- 
mation of  dismay,  hurried  across  the  muddy  floor,  and 
bent  down  close  to  him.  At  that  moment  his  eyes 
opened,  gazed  in  astonishment  for  an  instant  at  the  face 
bent  over  him,  then  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of  momentary 
rapture. 

"  Is  it  you  ?"  he  cried.  "  Ah,  I  have  had  such  hateful 
dreams." 

"  I  came  here  to  see  how  you  fared,"  said  Randolph, 
more  gently  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking. 

"  Here  ?"  repeated  Hugo,  his  face  clouding  over. 
"  Where  is  it  ?  Where  are  we  ?"  He  half  raised  himself 
with  a  bewildered,  troubled  look  and  glanced  around.  It 
was  after  all  the  dream  that  had  been  fair  and  the  reality 
that  was  hateful.  There  was  the  grim,  iron-studded  door, 
and  the  little  grating,  and  the  bare  walls,  and  the  wet 
floor  gleaming  in  the  sickly  light.  He  sunk  back  again, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  There  was  silence  in 
the  cell.  Randolph  was  relieved  when  he  looked  up  once 
more. 

"  I  must  have  slept  right  sound,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which 
betrayed  repressed  suffering.  "  I  did  not  hear  you  come  in." 

"  You  have  little  else  to  do  in  Newgate,  I  should  think." 

"No;  and  here  it  is  not  often  possible  to  sleep  at  night 
because  of  the  rats  ;  they  are  quieter  by  day." 

He  got  up  as  he  spoke,  and  crossed  the  cell  languidly, 
returning  with  a  rough  wooden  seat,  which  he  offered  to 
bis  brother. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  with  his  back  against  the 
wall,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 

"  Your  head  is  aching  ?"  asked  Randolph. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  it  always  aches  now." 

"  They  should  have  told  me  how  ill  you  were." 

"  Scroop  said  he  did  tell  you.  Scroop  is  very  good  to 
me." 

"  What  does  he  do  for  you  ?" 

Randolph  glanced  round  as  though  to  discover  traces  of 
the  jailer's  attention. 

"  He  brings  the  bread  and  water  himself  instead  of  send- 
ing one  of  the  prisoners  ;  and  he  is  never  uncivil  now. 
And  on  the  bad  days  he  will  bring  me  a  double  share  of 
water." 


236  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"There  is  no  other  prisoner  with  you,  then?" 

"  No,  save  for  the  first  day  and  night,  when  poor  Baillie 
was  here.  Baillie  of  Jerviswood,  a  Scotsman,  near  of  kin 
to  Dr.  Burnet." 

"  I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Randolph.  "  He  too  was 
implicated  in  the  plot.  What  has  come  to  him  ?  Is  he 
executed  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Hugo.  "  Worse  than  that.  They  bore  him 
back  to  Scotland  because  here  they  may  not  legally  torture 
him  for  evidence.  There  he  may  have  both  rack  and 
boot." 

"  And  since  he  went  you  have  been  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  save  when  Scroop  comes  in,  or  Mr.  Ambrose 
Philips." 

«  Who  is  he  ?" 

"  One  who  hath  an  order  from  one  of  the  secretaries  to 
come  here  as  oft  as  he  will  and  try  to  drag  evidence  from 
me." 

"  Ah,  lad,"  said  Randolph,  with  a  sigh,  "  when  are  you 
going  to  yield  to  him  ?  What  heart  have  I  for  joining  in  a 
national  thanksgiving  while  you  languish  here  ?" 

Hugo  turned  his  languid  eyes  upon  him  for  a  minute, 
but  he  seemed  too  weak  and  depressed  to  care  very  much 
for  anything. 

"Is  there  a  thanksgiving?"  he  asked.  "I  heard  St. 
Sepulchre's  bells  ring.  They  tolled  for  Lord  Russell  the 
day  I  came  in  here,  and  now  they  ring  for  the  king's 
triumph.  What  day  is  it  ?  I  have  lost  count  of  time." 

"  'Tis  the  9th  of  September." 

"  Then  I  have  but  been  in  this  cell  nigh  upon  two  months. 
Yet  it  seems  like  two  years."  Then,  half  dreamily,  "  How 
merry  the  bells  sound.  I  thought  it  must  be  Gunpowder- 
plot  Day.  Only  September !  Only  September !  My  God ! 
keep  me  from  thinking  of  the  whole !" 

"  The  whole  of  what?"  asked  Randolph,  startled  by  the 
sudden  tone  of  agony. 

Hugo  seemed  to  return  to  the  world  again. 

."Of  life,"  he  said.  "  Jt  is  thinking  of  the  whole  that 
drives  men  wild." 

Randolph  knew  not  what  to  say.  The  interview  had  not 
been  at  all  what  he  had  expected.  Hugo  did  not  seem 
overpowered  with  delight  at  seeing  him,  nor  much  struck 
by  his  condescension  in  coming  ;  he  was  so  ill  and  weak, 
too,  that  the  elder  brother's  manhood  kept  him  from  saying 
what  was  harsh  and  bitter,  and  tender  words  did  not  come 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  237 

naturally  to  his  lips.     So  once  more  lie  fell  back  into  an 
uncomfortable  silence. 

All  at  once  voices  were  heard  outside,  and  the  key  grated 
in  the  lock.  An  extraordinary  change  came  over  Hugo. 
His  pale  face  flushed  as  though  he  had  made  some  sudden 
effort  ;  he  sprung  up,  crossed  the  cell  hurriedly,  and  took 
up  a  position  with  his  back  to  the  light,  leaning  against 
the  wall  below  the  grating.  Meanwhile  Scroop  hud  opened 
the  door,  and  there  entered  a  bland-looking  man,  who 
glanced  swiftly  at  Eandolph. 

"  Ah,  the  jailer  told  me  I  should  find  you  here.  I  have 
merely  come  to  have  my  little  conversation  with  your 
brother.  I  will  not  interrupt  you  long." 

Randolph  perceived  that  this  must  be  Mr.  Philips.  The 
little  man  turned  to  Hugo,  who  merely  bowed  to  him,  and 
then  once  more  leaned  back  against  the  wall  with  folded 
arms. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  hope  I  see  you  better.  What 
do  you  think  of  our  national  thanksgiving,  eh  ?  What,  still 
playing  the  mute  ?  I  hoped  you  had  tired  of  that  game. 
But  in  truth  I  have  some  news  for  you  this  morning.  I 
have  been  to  the  Tower,  and  have  seen  your  friend  Sidney." 

Hugo's  face  relaxed  a  little,  and  a  very  eager  look  dawned 
in  his  eyes. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Nay,"  said  Philips,"  why  should  I  tell  you  what  you 
would  fain  know,  when  you  will  not  tell  me  aught  that  I 
desire  ?  Promise  to  give  evidence  against  the  colonel  and 
I'll  not  only  tell  yo^ about  him,  but  I'll  bear  you  to  him 
this  very  day." 

Hugo  vouchsafed  no  answer  to  this.  Philips  continued, 
more  warmly. 

"  You  know  that  your  fate  is  in  your  own  hands.  'Tis  in 
your  own  power  to  make  yourself  what  you  will,  for  you 
know  this  rogue  Sidney  is  a  traitor,  and  you  may  make 
yourself  what  you  will,  if  you  will  discover  what  you  know 
of  his  designs  against  the  Government." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Hugo,  sternly.  "I  could  say 
naught  that  could  touch  a  hair  of  Colonel  Sidney's  head.  I 
have  told  you  so  a  hundred  times." 

"If  I  might  advise  the  king,"  said  Philips,  wrathfully, 
"I  would  bid  him  have  all  you  damned  Whig  rogues 
hanged.  The  colonel  sent  a  message  to  you,  moreover,"  he 
continued,  tantalizingly ;  "but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  de- 
liver it  while  you  still  keep  up  this  stubborn  resistance." 


238  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

And  thus  in  much  the  same  strain  the  interview  went  on, 
Philips  alternately  coaxing  and  threatening,  Hugo  loftily 
silent,  his  face  stern,  his  lips  firmly  set,  his  eyes,  which  just 
before  had  been  so  languid,  full  of  strength  and  resist- 
ance.* 

At  length  the  questioner's  patience  was  exhausted,  and 
he  took  his  leave. 

"  You  may  think  to  baffle  me,  Mr.  Wh arn cliff e,"  he  said, 
angrily,  "  and  for  a  time  you  may  succeed,  but  in  the  end 
you  will  be  forced  to  succumb.  Mark  my  words,  there  are 
worse  things  in  our  power  than  you  wot  of.  I  have  known 
folk  not  allowed  to  sleep  by  day  or  by  night  for  weeks  that 
evidence  might  be  gained.  I  shall  see  you  again  on  the 
morrow." 

Hugo  bowed,  but  made  no  reply,  and  Philips,  rapping 
loudly  on  the  door,  was  released  by  Scroop,  who  had 
remained  outside.  When  the  door  had  been  closed  and 
locked  Hugo,  with  an  air  of  great  exhaustion,  recrossed 
the  cell,  and  once  more  lay  down  on  the  bed. 

"That  is  over,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  in  a  tone  of 
relief. 

"  You  dread  Mr.  Philips,  then  ?"  said  Kandolph. 

Hugo  started. 

"  I  had  forgot  you  were  there,"  he  said.  "  No,  I  do  not 
dread  the  man,  but  I  dread  myself.  Oh,  must  you  go  ?"  as 
Randolph  rose  and  and  began  to  readjust  his  cloak.  "  Will 
you  not  stay  yet  a  little  while  ?  There  is  so  much  I  would 
ask  you,  and  who  knows  if  we  shall  meet  again  ?" 

There  was  such  entreaty  in  his  voice  that  Randolph  sat 
down  once  more. 

"  We  shall  meet  again  at  your  trial,"  he  said,  coldly. 
"  Have  you  not  remembered  that  I  shall  have  to  bear  wit- 
ness against  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo.  "But  perchance  that  may  never 
come  off.  There  is  a  deliverer  on  whom  Ambrose  Philips 
does  not  reckon.  Every  second  day  the  fever  returns  to 
me,  and  with  that  a  chance  of  death.  But  I  waste  the 
time.  Tell  me  of  Jeremiah — of  the  Denhams." 


*  Ambrose  Philips  was  really  employed  to  extort  evidence 
against  Sidney  from  one  Aaron  Smith,  who  was  kept  for  some 
time  a  prisoner.  See  Ewald's  "Life  of  Sidney."  Meadley  says 
that  prisons  were  ransacked,  and  menaces  and  persuasions  alter- 
nately employed  among  the  prisoners,  in  order  to  get  a  second 
witness  to  prove  Sidney's  treason,  but  none  could  be  found. 


IN  ^HE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  239 

Randolph  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  his  request 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  you  to  talk  to,"  he 
said,  gratefully;  "  the  days  are  like  eternity." 

"  They  do  not  permit  books  ?" 

"No;  I  have  naught  to  pass  the  time  save  an  old  bit  of 
charcoal,  with  which  I  can  draw,  and  a  rat  which  I  have 
tamed.  Were  it  not  for  those  I  should  have  gone  mad." 

"  By  your  own  confession,  you  see,  you  are  altogether 
miserable.  Why,  then,  be  such  a  fool  as  to  stay  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Hugo,  quietly,  "  I  am  not  wholly  miserable. 
Can  you  not  understand  that  'tis  sweet  to  feel  you  hold  the 
safety  of  two  men  in  your  keeping  ?  Did  I  betray  them, 
then  indeed  I  should  be,  and  deserve  to  .be,  right  misera- 
ble. What!  one  o'clock  by  St.  Sepulchre's  ?" 

"Ay;  is  that  your  dinner-hour?"  asked  Randolph. 

Hugo  smiled  faintly. 

"  One  does  not  dine  in  Newgate,"  he  said.  "  But  this  is 
the  hour  when  my  fever  returns.  Perchance  it  were,  after 
all,  best  that  you  should  go." 

Randolph  half  hesitated.  Truth  to  tell,  he  wanted  his 
own  dinner,  and  yet  a  vague  uneasiness  prompted  him  to 
stay  with  his  brother.  He  looked  down  at  him  intently, 
and  that  look  made  him  decide  to  stay.  For,  true  to 
Hugo's  prediction,  the  paroxysm  of  ague  had  already 
begun.  He  had  turned  ghastly  pale,  his  lips  were  blue, 
his  face  haggard  and  drawn.  Randolph  thought  him 
dying. 

"  There  is  naught  to  fear,"  he  said,  speaking  as  well  as 
he  could  with  chattering  teeth.  "  It  is  ever  like  this." 

But  Randolph  did  fear.  For  soon  Hugo  was  shivering 
from  head  to  foot,  and  a  strange  blue  shade  had  overspread 
his  face. 

"  Do  they  not  even  allow  straw  in  this  wretched  hole  ?" 
said  Randolph,  wrathfully. 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  for  fear  of  fire." 

To  speak  of  fear  of  fire  in  that  miserable,  damp  dun- 
geon seemed  a  mockery.  With  an  oath  Randolph  tore  off 
both  his  cloak  and  doublet  and  wrapped  them  around  the 
shivering  form. 

"  Is  that  better  ?"  he  asked. 

But  there  was  no  reply.  Hugo  seemed  to  be  drifting 
away  into  unconsciousness.  Was  it  the  unconsciousness  of 
death? 

" He  shall  not  die !"  said  Randolph  to  himself.  "He 
shall  not !"  And,  with  a  pang,  Hugo's  own  words  returned 


240  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

to  him — "  'Tis  sweet  to  feel  you  hold  the  safety  of  others  in 
your  keeping." 

Sweet !  It  was  hideous  beyond  description — it  was  in- 
tolerable !  But  his  brother  should  not  die  ;  death  should 
not  deliver  him.  His  life  was  too  precious  to  be  lost.  Not 
that  Randolph  would  permit  himself  weakly  to  be  turned 
from  his  purpose  by  the  sight  of  a  little  pain.  Hugo 
should  remain  in  Newgate  till  he  had  been  forced  into 
giving  evidence,  but  he  should  not  stay  another  day  even 
in  that  pestilent  dungeon.  He  rapped  loudly  on  the  door 
to  attract  Scroop's  attention  ;  but  Ihe  jailer  was  out  of 
hearing,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  hud  forgotten  him.  He 
knocked,  he  swore,  he  stormed,  all  to  no  purpose. 
"  Must  you  go?"  said  Hugo,  reviving  a  little. 
"No,  but  I  want  to  send  that  varlet  to  fetch  blankets  for 
you.  A  plague  on  his  foolish  pate.  Why  doth  he  not 
hear  ?" 

"  Never  mind ;  a  dozen  blankets  would  not  warm  me. 
Moreover,  I  am  well  used  to  it." 

Randolph  stood  watching  him  in  miserable  helplessness. 
At  length,  prompted  by  common  sense,  he  sat  down  on  the 
stony  pillow  and  lifted  Hugo  so  that  his  head  and  shoulders 
rested  against  him  instead  of  upon  the  stones. 

"Ah,  that  is  better,"  he  said,  and  spite  of  the  pain  and 
misery  a  look  of  relief — almost  of  happiness — stole  over  his 
worn  face. 

They  did  not  speak  much,  but  for  hours  Randolph  held 
him  in  his  strong  arms  and  did  what  he  could  for  him, 
Hugo  responding  with  the  sort  of  dog-like  gratitude  with 
which  he  had  always  accepted  kindness  from  his  guardian. 
At  length,  when  the  shivering  fits  had  given  place  to  rag- 
ing fever  and  thirst,  when  the  third  and  final  stage  of  the 
attack  was  over  and  had  left  the  patient  worn  out  and 
drowsy,  Randolph  once  more  resumed  his  doublet  and  hat, 
and  this  time  succeeded  in  attracting  Scroop's  notice. 

"  Had  as  much  as  you  like  of  dungeon  life,  sir  ?"  asked 
the  jailer. 

"Ay,  and  the  prisoner  hath  had  too  much,"  said 
Randolph.  Then  bending  down  over  his  brother,  "It 
shall  be  your  last  night  in  this  hole,  trust  me." 

Hastily  embracing  him,  he  turned  away,  and  was  con- 
ducted by  Scroop  to  the  upper  regions. 

"  Ah,  my  Ratto,"  said  Hugo,  as  his  little  brown  friend 
appeared  the  moment  the  cell  was  quiet  once  more,  "  you 
and  your  family  may  dance  all  night  an  you  will,  I'll 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  241 

not  grumble  ;  for  to-morrow,   Ratto,  I   shall  breath  freely 
once  more,  to-morrow  I  shall  have  better  company  than 

you." 

But  when  the  next  evening  he  thought  things  over  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  wronged  Eatto. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CLEVELAND   HOUSE. 

Oh,  most  delicate  fiend 
Who  is't  can  read  a  woman  ? 

Cymbeline. 

APTEB  the  first  moment  of  intense  relief  on  breathing 
the  fresh  air  in  Newgate  Street,  Randolph  fell  into  a  train 
of  very  unpleasant  thought.  The  struggle  first  awakened 
in  his  mind  by  that  curious  rhyme  in  the  church  returned 
now  with  tenfold  force.  He  could  not  get  his  will,  at  any 
rate  at  present;  but  neither  could  he  make  up  his  mind  to 
resign  his  will  and  accept  defeat  at  the  hands  of  his  younger 
brother.  Without  accepting  defeat  he  could  not  save  Hugo 
from  the  hard  fate  that  awaited  him.  In  this  strait  what 
was  he  to  do?  Not  for  long  years  had  so  sharp  a  struggle 
raged  within  him,  not  for  long  years  had  the  good  so  nearly 
triumphed. 

He  had  walked  gloomily  along  Fleet  Street,  chafed  and 
annoyed  by  the  loyal  crowd  who  were  preparing  the  even- 
ing illuminations.  Somehow  this  thanksgiving  grated  on 
him,  seemed  to  his  guilty  conscience  but  a  hideous  mock- 
ery. Again  and  again  he  heard  Hugo's  voice  dreamily  re- 
peating, "  How  merry  the  bells  sound,"  and  he  shuddered 
as  he  remembered  the  dreary  prison  cell. 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  Tem- 
ple, and  for  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute,  vaguely  listening 
to  the  bells  of  St.  Clement's,  vaguely  watching  the  men 
and  boys  as  they  heaped  fagots  upon  a  bonfire  hard  by. 
Should  he  go  home  to  encounter  Jeremiah's  stern  face  and 
unspoken  reproaches,  or  should  he  divert  his  thoughts 
from  the  unpleasant  subject  altogether  and  go  to  Cleve- 
land House  ?  He  looked  past  the  bonfire  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Strand,  he  looked  to  the  left  toward  the  dark 
and  quiet  temple.  Which  was  it  to  be  ?  His  whole  future 
life  hung  upon  the  choice,  little  as  he  was  aware  of  the 


242  *  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

fact.  An  insignificant  turning-point,  a  decision  which 
seemed  scarce  worth  pausing  over,  but,  as  is  so  often  the 
case,  one  upon  which  hung  great  issues. 

The  chambers  in  King's  Bench  Walk  rose  vividly  before 
him — the  empty  chair,  the  untouched  books,  the  silence, 
the  sad-faced  serving-man.  Why,  it  would  all  reproach 
him,  all  re-echo  the  inward  voice  of  his  self-reproach.  He 
could  not  bear  it.  He  must  seek  diversion,  dancing, 
drink,  flattery,  vice,  anything,  he  cared  not  what,  so  that 
it  would  take  him  out  of  his  true  self.  He  turned  into 
the  Grecian,  made  a  hasty  meal,  then,  threading  his  way 
through  the  crowded  streets,  sought  refuge  from  his  tor- 
menting thoughts  in  the  costly  and  magnificent  house — a 
palace  in  all  but  the  name — which  had  been  built  for  the 
Duchess  of  Cleveland.  This  evening  it  was  quieter  than 
usual,  for  there  were  festivities  at  Whitehall,  and  the 
duchess  would  have  been  there  herself  had  she  not  been 
detained  by  a  slight  indisposition.  Randolph  was  ushered 
through  stately  corridors  and  gorgeous  but  tenantless 
rooms  to  a  little  boudoir  which  he  knew  quite  well.  It 
was  a  charming  little  room  ;  the  most  beautiful  tapestry 
hung  upon  the  walls,  the  softest  skin  rugs  covered  the 
floor,  a  cheerful  wood  fire  threw  its  mellow  light  upon  one 
of  Grinling  Gibbon's  most  delicately  carved  chimney 
pieces,  and  wax  candles  disposed  here  and  there  beneath 
rose-colored  shades  diffused  a  soft  glow  on  all  around.  At 
one  end  of  the  room  an  open  door-way,  half  veiled  by 
silken  draperies  of  gold  and  crimson,  betrayed  a  vision  of 
white-robed  attendants  with  lutes,  harps,  and  guitars,  and 
as  Randolph  entered  a  girl  s  voice  was  filling  the  room 
with  the  exquisite  air  and  the  abominable  words  of  one  of 
the  songs  of  the  day.  Beside  the  wood  fire  in  the  boudoir 
sat  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  her  shapely  head  with  its 
rich  brown  curls  resting  in  languid  comfort  among  crim- 
son velvet  cushions,  her  tiny  feet  stretched  out  to  the 
blaze  upon  a  French  taboret,  her  long,  loose  dress  of 
creamy  Indian  silk  falling  in  rich  folds  on  the  tiger-skin 
rirg,  and  her  swan-like  neck  partly  veiled  by  a  soft,  white 
fur  tippet  which  she  had  drawn  around  her. 

"  Ah,  is  it  you,  Randolph  ?"  she  said,  smiling  and  motion- 
ing him  to  a  seat  beside  her.  "  You  have  come  to  cheer 
me  in  my  desolation.  I  took  cold  upon  the  river  last 
night,  and  so  dare  not  share  in  the  Whitehall  festival." 

So  carefully  and  delicately  did  her  attendants  dispose 
the  rouge  and  powder  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  243 

believe  the  duchess  to  be  a  middle-aged  woman.  She  Lad 
all  the  charms  of  youth  and  all  the  savoir-faire  and  acute 
observation  of  a  woman  of  great  experience.  Her  penciled 
eyebrows,  her  large,  lustrous,  dark  eyes,  her  finely  chiseled 
nose  with  its  arched  nostrils,  and  her  full,  red  lips,  bore  an 
expression  of  calm,  haughty  consciousness  of  power.  Look- 
ing far  younger  than  Randolph,  she  was  in  truth  some 
years  his  senior,  and,  while  seeming  only  to  charm  and 
amuse  him,  she  ruled  over  him  despotically.  In  his  inmost 
heart  he  was  aware  that  he  was  her  slave,  but  this  was  a 
slavery  which  he  did  not  deem  bondage.  It  was  the 
fashion.  What  then  !  he  must  follow  with  the  multitude,  and 
there  was  no  shame  connected  with  such  conquest.  But  to 
be  conquered  by  principles,  to  own  the  sovereignty  of  con- 
science, to  sacrifice  present  gain  to  some  shadowy  notion 
of  right,  this  was  a  "  bondage  "  which  he  could  not  en- 
dure, which,  in  fact,  he  had  not  the  courage  to  face.  He 
had  come  to  Cleveland  House  to  be  soothed  out  of  the 
rugged  vision  of  hateful  duty,  of  humiliating  reparation 
which  had  dawned  upon  him.  He  had  come  because  his 
love  of  Hugo  had  made  him  miserable,  and  because  his 
love  of  self  made  him  hate  the  misery,  and  because,  in 
good  truth,  vice  was  so  easy  and  natural,  and  the  first  steps 
in  virtue  so  perplexing  and  hard. 

"  I  can  not  so  much  as  smell  a  flower,"  said  the  duchess, 
laughing  and  taking  from  her  bosom  a  cluster  of  red  roses. 
"  There,  you  happy  mortal,  exempt  from  colds  and  coughs, 
bear  them  for  me.  Oh,  crimini !  how  he  crushes  my  poor 
gift  in  his  manly  grasp !  Thou  art  out  of  temper  to-night, 

i  ami" 

And  therefore  I  came  to  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
bright,  laughing  eyes. 

"  That  is  ever  the  fate  of  women,"  said  the  duchess,  pout- 
ing and  rearranging  her  dress.  She  had  taper  fingers,  but 
her  wrists  were  large  and  ugly.  "  When  the  men  are  worth 
talking  to  they  stay  away.  When  they  are  in  the  dumps 
they  come  and  expect  to  be  amused,  for  all  the  world  like 
peevish  nursery  imps.  I  dare  swear  it  is  that  brother  of 
yours  who  troubles  your  peace.  Ah !  I  thought  as  much." 

"I  have  seen  him  this  day.  He  is  ill,  well-nigh  dying." 

"  That  must  not  be  allowed,"  said  the  duchess,  decidedly. 

"What,  have  they  been  starving  him  ?" 

"They  have  done  their  worst  to  him,  and  he  will  reveal 
naught.  Misery  seems  to  have  no  power  to  shake  him  from 
his  purpose." 


2M  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  He  was  ever  obstinate  as  a  mule,  our  little  court  saint," 
said  the  duchess.  "But  since  misery  will  not  move  him, 
try  yet  another  plan.  Let  him  have  the  best  private  cell  which 
Newgate  will  afford,  and  I  will  send  a  sweet  little  temptress 
to  nurse  him  into  health  and  to  play  the  part  of  a 
Delilah." 

Randolph  did  not  speak,  there  was  a  curious  look  of 
doubt  and  hesitation  in  his  face. 

"  What !  art  turning  Puritan  !"  said  the  duchess,  with  a 
mocking  laugh. 

"  A  very  idle  question,  fair  lady."  he  replied,  with  a 
slightly  sarcastic  smile,  "  while  I  sit  here  in  this  palace  of 
delight!  However,  you  know  well  that  in  some  sense 
Hugo  may  be  accounted  one." 

"  That  was  all  very  well  when  he  was  a  pretty,  pale- 
faced  boy.  But  now  he  is  a  man  and  ought  to  pay  his 
devoirs  to  beauty  and  love.  He  must  be  brought  down 
from  his  lofty  heights,  very  kindly  and  tenderly  an  you 
will,  but  he  must  be  brought  down,  else  will  you  never 
gain  from  him  what  you  would.  Why  should  you  object  ? 
'Twill  be  a  kindness  to  send  him  what  will  best  cheer  his 
solitude.  And  as  to  my  little  Blanchette,  she  will  be  the 
queen  of  his  heart  ere  another  day  is  over.  No  man  can 
resist  Blanchette.  I  will  call  her." 

The  duchess  touched  a  little  silver  bell  which  stood  be- 
side her,  and  immediately  one  of  the  white-robed  attend- 
ants appeared  at  the  doorway,  with  one  hand  holding  back 
the  silken  curtain  which  hung  in  soft,  sheeny  folds  on 
each  side  of  her.  She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  tall,  grace- 
ful, with  snowy  neck  and  arms,  masses  of  loose  flaxen  hair, 
and  eyes  which  were  constantly  veiling  themselves  beneath 
dark  lashes  as  though  modestly  conscious  of  their  own 
power. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  your  song,  Blanchette  ?"  asked 
the  duchess. 

"  It  was  a  love  song,  by  my  Lord  Eochester,"  said  the 
girl,  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  in  which  there  were  pleasant 
modulations. 

"  It  suits  you  well,  go  sing  another  like  it.  After  that 
you  may  close  the  door." 

The  girl  courtesied  and  withdrew,  and  ere  long  another 
passionate  song  thrilled  through  both  anteroom  and  bou- 
doir. Then  the  door  was  softly  closed,  and  there  was  si- 
lence. 

"  Well,  shall  we  try  her  ?"  said  the  duchess. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  245 

"  Perchance  it  might  be  as  well,"  said  Randolph, 

"Still  doubtful,"  said  the  duchess,  laughing.  "Why, 
won  ami,  St.  Antony  himself  couldn't  have  resisted  her.  I 
see  a  triumphant  end  to  all  your  trouble." 

Randolph  did  not  speak.  His  eye  had  fallen  upon  a 
mirror  which  hung  upon  the  opposite  wall.  In  it  he  could 
see  the  reflection  of  the  luxurious  room,  of  the  magical 
lights,  of  the  beautiful  duchess,  with  her  pearl  ear-rings 
and  necklace,  of  himself  lying  on  the  tiger-skin  rug  at  her 
feet. 

Another  picture  rose  before  him.  A  dark  prison  wall, 
a  gleam  of  chill  light  from  a  narrow  grating,  a  man  stand- 
ing beneath  it  with  folded  arms,  set  lips,  stern  brow,  bearing 
threats  and  taunts  in  silence,  rejecting  bribes  with  scorn. 

And  the  duchess  spoke  lightly  and  cheerfully  of  a  "  tri- 
umphant end." 

Well,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  triumph  over  that  other 
— that  other  whose  picture  contrasted  so  unpleasantly  with 
the  reflection  in  the  mirror.  He  would  like  to  falsify  that 
picture,  he  would  like  to  drag  him  down,  he  hated  him 
for  his  resistance.  He  should  not  die,  he  should  not  tri- 
umph, he  should  be  dragged  down,  and  be  a  little 
lower  than  himself. 

"  You  have  cheered  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  duchess 
with  a  smile  in  his  dark  eyes,  in  which  there  lurked  already 
the  anticipation  of  victory.  "  An  you  will  indeed  spare 
her;  Blanchette  shall  try  her  skill." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE   TRIAL. 

This  man  is  great  with  little  state, 

Lord  of  the  world  epitomized  : 

Who  with  staid  front  outfaceth  fate  : 

And,  being  empty,  is  sufficed — 

Or  is  sufficed  with  little,  since  (at  least) 

He  makes  his  conscience  a  perpetual  feast. 

JOHN  DAVIES  (1612). 

SCROOP  had  never  been  deficient  in  that  which  should  be 
a  marked  characteristic  in  a  jailer — he  had  never 
lacked  a  habit  of  observation.  At  the  same  time  he  had 
never  observed  any  prisoner  with  such  acuteness  as  he 
observed  Hugo  Wharncliffe.  He  had  watched  men  in  the 


246  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

mass,  he  had  watched  them  as  cases,  but  he  never  before 
watched  them  with  deep  interest  as  individuals.  On  the 
night  of  Hugo's  arrival  in  June,  Scroop  had  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  wondered.  Through  those  dreary  August 
days,  watching  his  prisoner  in  the  dungeon  as  he  fought 
against  fever,  depression,  and  misery,  Scroop  wondered 
still,  and  grew  pitiful.  Through  the  six  weeks  of  fierce 
unmitigated  temptation  that  followed  the  elder  brother's 
visit,  Scroop  wondered  more  and  more,  and  grew  reveren- 
tial. At  length  there  came  a  day  when  Blanchette  failed 
to  appear  at  Newgate,  and  thereupon  the  jailer  was  sum- 
moned into  the  governor's  private  room. 

"  Mr.  Wharncliffe  hath  recovered  from  his  illness  ?" 

"  Ay,  sir.     He  seems  well  enough." 

"  Good.  Then  remove  him  this  day  to  the  Common 
Debtor's  Ward.  'Tis  well  he  should  try  a  change  of  air." 

Scroop  dutifully  grinned  in  recognition  of  his  superior's 
jest,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  obey  his  orders. 

The  room  to  which  Hugo  had  been  removed  was  dry, 
well-aired,  and  by  no  means  uncomfortable;  he  probably 
owed  his  life  to  the  change.  As  Scroop  opened  the  door, 
the  prisoner  looked  up  apprehensively;  when  he  perceived 
that  the  jailer  was  alone,  he  could  not  repress  a  look  of 
relief. 

The  six  weeks'  temptation  had  left  very  visible  marks 
upon  his  face.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to  forget  that  he 
was  a  man— the  words  "boy"  and  "lad,"  which  bad  hither- 
to most  naturally  come  to  the  lips  in  speaking  of  him,  were 
no  longer  appropriate.  The  dreamy  look  in  his  eyes  had 
given  place  to  a  quiet  vigilance.  The  sweet-tempered 
mouth  had  become  sterner  and  straighter— and  youth  had 
passed  forever. 

"  I  am  to  be  removed,  Scroop  ?  That  is  well,"  he  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Your  honor  does  not  ask  whither,"  said  the  jailer. 

"  I  care  not,"  said  Hugo.  "  So  it  be  from  here,  and  from 
— "fc  He  broke  off  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

S6roop  felt  sorry  for  his  charge.  And  yet  since  he  had 
held  his  own  through  such  numberless  temptations,  why 
should  he  not  hold  his  still,  even  in  the  degraded  atmosphere 
of  the  common  jail  ? 

Truth  to  tell,  the  change  was  at  first  welcome  to 
Hugo.  It  was  a  relief  to  see  fresh  faces,  even  though 
they  were  reckless  and  often  wicked  faces ;  it  was  a 
relief  to  hear  once  more  the  babel  of  many  voices,  an£ 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  247 

it  needed  all  his  new  strength  to  resist  the  craving  which 
came  over  him  to  join  the  majority  in  drowning  wretched- 
ness in  drink,  and  whiling  away  the  weary  days  by  reckless 
play.  He  had  been  in  this  new  ward  about  a  fortnight, 
when  one  day  he  was  ordered  into  the  governor's  presence. 

"  You  had  best  be  preparing  your  defense,  Mr.  Wharn- 
cliffe,"  said  the  governor.  "  For  a  habeas  corpus  hath  been 
brought  unto  me,  and  I  am  ordered  to  bring  you  before 
the  Court  of  King's  Bench  on  the  morrow." 

"  To-morrow  !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  hardly  knowing  whether 
he  were  relieved  at  the  news  or  not.  "  Am  I  not  to  be 
allowed  counsel  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  governor. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  have  a  copy  of  the  indictment  ?"  said 
Hugo,  frowning  slightly,  for  he  was  greatly  perplexed  to 
know  what  possible  defense  he  could  make. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can  have  that,"  said  the  governor,  coolly. 
"  And  much  may  it  help  you." 

Hugo  read  it  in  silence.  Then  he  looked  up  boldly  ;  not 
that  he  felt  any  confidence  whatever,  but  that  he  would  not 
let  the  governor  see  his  hopelessness. 

"  I  desire  to  subpoena  two  witnesses,"  he  said.  "  Sir 
William  Denham  of  Norfolk  Street,  also  Mr.  Kupert  Den- 
harn." 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  said  the  governor.  "  They  have 
both  of  them  been  here  full  oft  desiring  to  see  you.  'Twill 
at  any  rate  look  well  to  have  such  a  Tory  name  as  Denham 
witnessing  in  your  behalf." 

Hugo  made  no  answer.  He  knew  that  the  only  wit- 
nesses who  could  avail  him  aught  were  at  Mondisfield 
Hall,  knew  that  there  could  be  but  one  end  to  the  trial. 

He  slept  little  that  night,  looking  forward  with  a  curi- 
ous mixture  of  pain  and  pleasure  to  the  coming  day.  It 
would  be  bitter  beyond  all  thought  to  see  Eandolph  ar- 
raigned against  him,  yet  it  would  be  inexpressibly  delight- 
ful to  breathe  fresh  air  once  more,  to  see  the  world  again, 
to  see  and  perhaps  speak  with  his  old  friends. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  was  taken  in  a  hackney-coach 
to  Westminster  ;  the  change  of  scene  was  less  enjoyable 
than  he  had  expected  ;  he  felt  dazed,  confused,  and  ter- 
ribly unequal  to  the  work  which  lay  before  him.  More- 
over, the  sun  was  not  shining,  as  he  had  hoped.  It  was  a 
gloomy  November  morning,  and  he  could  only  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Abbey  looming  drearily  out  of  the  river 
fog. 


248  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

He  tried  to  fancy  himself  once  more  a  Westminster  boy, 
tried  to  think  this  was  all  some  hideous  dream  ;  and  in- 
deed it  scarcely  felt  real  to  him  when  the  coach  drew  up 
at  the  entrance  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  he  was  marshaled 
through  the  staring  crowd,  to  find  himself,  not  in  his 
wonted  place,  taking  notes  of  the  cases  among  a  group  of 
careless  Templars,  but  as  a  prisoner  at  the  bar.  He 
glanced  hastily  around,  noting  many  familiar  faces,  the 
sight  of  which  disturbed  him  so  much  that  he  was  glad  to  sit 
down  and  busy  himself  with  some  papers  which  he  had 
brought,  with  a  few  notes  as  to  his  defense.  He  felt  that 
Eandolph  was  present,  but  could  not  bear  to  look  at  him; 
he  knew  that  the  lord  chief-justice  was  darkly  regarding 
him,  but,  having  once  bowed  to  him,  he  would .  not  cast 
one  glance  in  his  direction,  for  he  feared  Jeffreys,  and  was 
afraid  of  showing  his  fear,  and  ashamed  of  the  weakness 
which  yet  he  had  never  been  able  to  overcome.  There 
was  not  much  time  for  thought;  all  was  proceeded  with 
very  rapidly,  the  names  of  the  jury  hurried  through,  the 
indictment  read,  and  the  case  opened  by  the  counsel  for 
the  prosecution.  Hugo  tried  hard  to  listen,  tried  hard  to 
think,  but  the  speech  reached  him  in  very  disjointed 
fashion.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  that  Mr.  Ingram,  in  a 
clear,  ringing,  attractive  voice,  was  saying  that  he  would 
prove  the  prisoner  to  be  a  member  of  the  Green  Ribbon 
Club,  a  personal  friend  of  Algernon  Sidney,  one  who  pro- 
tected conventiclers,  a  betrayer  of  trust,  a  hater  of  mon- 
archy, and  a  concealer  of  treason  of  the  deepest  dye. 

The  speech  was  an  effective  one.  At  the  close  the  wit- 
nesses for  the  crown  were  called,  and  the  first  name  which 
rang  through  the  court  was  that  of  Randolph  Wharncliffe. 
The  prisoner  seemed  to  come  to  himself  as  the  familiar 
name  fell  upon  his  ear.  He  drew  himself  together,  sat 
more  erect,  looked  up  calmly  for  the  first  time,  unmindful 
of  the  myriad  eyes  fixed  upon  him — mindful  only  of  the 
face  which  he  had  not  seen  for  so  many  weeks.  He 
watched  his  brother  keenly  as  the  oath  was  administered 
to  him.  Did  he  think  of  that  scene  in  the  gallery  at  Mon- 
disfield,  when  another  oath  had  been  administered  on  the 
nun's  cross  ?  If  so,  the  thought  left  no  trace  on  his  stern 
brow;  he  looked  hard,  austere,  as  though  he  hated  the  work 
before  him,,  but  meant  to  go  through  it  unscrupulously. 
Then,  skillfully  aided  by  questions  from  Mr.  Ingram,  Ran- 
dolph unfolded  the  whole  story  of  Hugo's  two  visits  to 
Mondisfield,  omitting  only,  or  adroitly  veiling,  all  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  240 

could  make  his  own  share  in  the  work  appear  dishonorable 
— omitting,  of  course,  the  scene  with  the  pistol. 

Indignation  at  this  incomplete  version  began  to  stir  in 
Hugo's  heart,  and  a  pang  of  wrathful  pleasure  possessed 
him  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  cross- 
examine  the  witness.  He  would  punish  him — would  drag 
from  his  lips  the  disgraceful  confession  of  that  midnight 
scene — would  show  forth  before  all  men  the  villainy  that 
had  led  him  astray.  Revenge  at  least  was  in  his  power, 
and  revenge  he  would  have.  His  eye  flashed  so  strangely 
that  the  spectators  wondered  what  had  come  to  the  pris- 
oner, who  at  first  had  been  so  passive  and  downcast. 

And  yet? — and  yet?  Was  it  for  him  to  think  of  ven- 
geance ?  Was  he — the  greatly  forgiven — to  harbor  wrath- 
ful feelings?  Was  he  to  treat  his  brother  as  though  there 
was  no  tie  between  them — no  deathless  bond  of  kinship? 
Well,  Randolph  had  broken  the  bond — had  treated  him 
shamefully.  Why  should  he  not  follow  his  example  ?  Why 
should  he  not  have  his  turn  now? 

"If  you  have  any  questions  to  put  to  the  witness," 
bawled  Jeffreys,  "put  them  at  once." 

Hugo  stood  up.  Burning  words  were  on  his  lips — words 
•which  would  have  shamed  Randolph  before  the  whole 
court — questions  to  which  he  could  but  have  given  one  re- 
ply. Nothing  could  have  altered  the  inevitable  result  of 
the  trial,  but  this  would  have  brought  to  light  Randolph's 
villainy,  and  proved  the  strongest  excuse  for  himself  ;  but 
at  that  moment  another  trial  scene  flashed  before  his 
mind — the  vision  of  another  prisoner — and  with  that  a 
loathing  of  his  selfish  anger  and  petty  revenge,  and  withal 
a  recollection  of  what  love  and  brotherhood  meant. 

"  Of  my  brother  I  ask  no  question,"  he  said,  quietly ;  and 
resumed  his  seat  amid  murmurs  of  surprise. 

Only  Randolph  fully  understood  all  that  was  involved 
in  the  prisoner's  silence.  A  sudden  flush  overspread  his 
dark  face  ;  he  left  the  witness-box  hastily,  and  passed 
through  the  crowd  with  a  face  so  troubled  and  downcast 
that  many  of  the  observant  people  remarked  that  it  must 
be  hard  on  an  elder  brother  to  bear  such  family  disgrace; 
they  felt  sorry  for  Mr.  Wharncliffe. 

John  Pettit,  landlord  of  the  White  Horse,  Mondisfield, 
next|deposed  to  the  prisoner's  presence  at  his  inn  on  the  5th 
of  October  of  the  previous  year,  and  corroborated  Ran- 
dolph's assertion  that  Hugo  had  accompanied  his  brother 
in  the  evening.  Hugo  put  two  or  three  questions  to  him, 


250  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

but  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  one  who  knew 
Joyce. 

Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and  other  witnesses  followed,  and 
there  was  much  discussion  upon  the  papers  found  in  Col- 
onel Wharncliffe's  room.  Then  Hugo  was  told  to  enter 
upon  his  defense.  Sir  William  and  Ruppert  listened  now 
anxiously,  and  were  in  truth  astonished  at  the  prisoner's 
intrepid  bearing.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken 
in  public,  and  to  speak  amid  the  perpetual  interruptions 
of  Jeffreys  was  no  easy  matter.  However,  he  went  steadily 
on,  knowing  that  the  defense  was  useless,  yet  with  simple 
directness  putting  forward  the  sole  plea  which  was  left  to 
him.  He  was  charged  with  misprision  of  treason,  but  it 
had  yet  to  be  proved  that  treasonable  matter  was  contained 
in  the  particular  book  of  manuscripts  which  he  had  con- 
cealed ;  it  had  yet  to  be  proved  that  treasonable  words 
had  been  spoken  at  the  meeting  at  Mondisfield.  They  had 
but  the  witness  of  one  man  to  these  facts  ;  he  submitted 
that  the  treason  was  only  inferred,  and  not  proven. 

Then  he  called  upon  Sir  William  Denham  to  bear  witness 
to  his  character,  and  Sir  William,  having  described  him  as 
the  last  man  on  earth  to  meddle  with  plots  or  politics,  and 
one  of  the  king's  most  loyal  subjects,  made  way  for  his  son, 
who  confirmed  his  testimony.  It  was  a  lame  defense,  and 
a  poor  show  of  witnesses,  yet  better  than  nothing. 

"What!  no  more  witnesses?"  shouted  Jeffreys,  in 
mocking  tones. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  said  Hugo,  composedly. 

"Then  address  yourself  to  the  jury,  and  don't  waste 
time,"  said  the  lord  chief -justice.  Nothing  irritated  him  so 
much  as  quiet  composure.  "  I  can  tell  you  we've  weightier 
matters  in  hand  this  day  than  listening  to  the  vain  prattle 
of  such  lads  as  you.  Speak  on,  and  keep  to  the  point." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Hugo,  his  mellow  voice  contrasting 
oddly  with  Jeffrey's  hoarse  roar,  "  perchance  you  will  not 
deem  five  minutes  over  long  for  one  who  is  pleading  against 
lifelong  imprisonment.  I  have  been  denied  the  aid  of 
counsel,  denied  any  legal  aid  whatever,  and  am  therefore  at 
great  disadvantage.  However,  I  trust  you  will  hold  with 
the  poet — 

"  'For  lawyers  and  their  pleading, 

They  esteem  it  not  a  straw  ; 
They  think  that  honest  meaning 
Is  of  itself  a  law. ' 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  251 

It  hath  been  shown  to  you  that  I  have  ever  been  his  ma- 
jesty's loyal  subject ;  I  heard  no  word  of  the  plot  till  the 
whole  was  made  public,  nor  have  you  any  right  to  construe 
a  refusal  to  give  evidence  against  a  kinsman  into  a  mute 
acknowledgment  that  the  said  kinsman  is  guilty  of  trea- 
son. You  may  infer  what  you  please — I  can  not  help  that 
— but  I  maintain,  gentlemen — and  I  think  you  will  agree 
with  me — that  the  treason  is  not  proven,  and  that  you  can 
not  legally  find  me  guilty  of  misprision,  seeing  that  the 
whole  hangeth  upon  the  word  of  but  one  witness.  My 
life  is  in  your  hands.  I  ask  you,  apart  from  fear  or  favor, 
to  give  me  the  verdict  of  honest  citizens,  and  to  say  that 
this  case  is  not  proven." 

Had  the  jury  gone  away  with  those  unmistakably  honest 
tones  ringing  in  their  ears,  there  might  have  been  some 
faint  hope  for  Hugo,  but  there  followed  Mr.  Ingram's  pow- 
erful speech  on  behalf  of  the  crown,  and  then  Jeffrey's 
summing  up  and  charge  to  the  jury.  Accustomed  as  he 
was  to  the  brutality  of  the  lord  chief-justice,  Hugo  was  yet 
amazed  at  the  audacious  wickedness  of  the  man,  his  utter 
disregard  of  all  reason  and  right.  The  jury  retired,  but 
speedily  returned;  after  such  a  charge  they  could  but  give 
one  answer.  Jeffreys,  well  pleased,  stood  up  to  deliver 
sentence,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  savage  amusement  in 
his  eye,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  a  surprise  in  store  for  the 
prisoner — this  obstinate  fellow,  out  of  whom,  nevertheless, 
he  still  hoped  to  drag  the  desired  evidence. 

"Hugo  Wharncliffe  " — the  voice  sought  now  to  be  only 
judicial  and  severe — "  you  are  found  guilty  of  the  crime  of 
misprision  of  treason;  I  therefore  sentence  you  to  be  im- 
prisoned during  the  remainder  of  your  natural  life,  or  dur- 
ing his  majesty's  pleasure;  and,  in  consideration  of  your  ex- 
treme youth,  I  pronounce  that  the  punishment  of  forfeiture 
of  goods  and  chattels,  or  of  profits  arising  upon  lands  be- 
longing unto  you,  shall  be  commuted,  and  in  lieu  thereof 
you  shall  be  whipped  by  the  common  hangman  from  New- 
gate to  Tyburn." 

A  murmur  of  surprise  and  astonishment  ran  through 
the  court,  the  barristers  clustered  together  in  little  groups 
and  whispered  questions  as  to  the  legality  of  Jeffrey's 
sentence.  Was  there  any  precedent  for  such  a  proceed- 
ing ?  Could  such  punishment  be  legally  substituted  ?  Sir 
William  Denham  shed  tears,  Rupert  swore  under  his 
breath,  Eandolph  flushed  slightly,  but  never  took  his  eyes 
off  his  brother's  face.  Beyond  a  doubt  Hugo  was  startled; 


252  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

as  the  terrible  doom  was  spoken  he  looked  up  hastily, 
looked  up  incredulously.  Surely  his  ears  must  have  de- 
ceived him?  Surely  that  punishment  could  never  be  his? 
"  My  lord,"  he  said,  the  color  surging  up  in  his  pale 
face,  "  I  have  not  been  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  me- 
thinks  your  sentence  is  illegal." 

They  were  bold  words  to  speak  to  such  a  one  as  the 
lord   chief-justice.     Every   one  looked    in   amaze   at  the 
prisoner,  who  had  dared  to  make  such  a  remonstrance. 
Jeffreys  grew  purple  with  wrath. 

"  What,  sirrah !"  he  exclaimed,  in  thundering  tones, 
"  are  you  such  an  adept  in  legal  matters  that  you  can  in- 
struct me  ?  Say  another  word,  and  you  shall  stand  in 
the  pillory  into  the  bargain !  Jailer !  remove  the  prisoner 
at  once." 

Hugo  bowed  to  his  judge,  and  turned  unresistingly 
toward  the  jailer,  who  led  him  from  the  court.  He  felt 
stunned,  stupefied;  afterward  he  recollected  sorrowfully 
that  he  had  not  even  looked  at  the  Denhams  or  at  Kan- 
dolph,  had  not  made  the  most  of  that  brief  glimpse  of  his 
old  haunts.  Unresistingly,  silently,  he  was  led  down  West- 
minster Hall,  past  the  familiar  book-stalls,  through  the 
staring  crowd- — the  crowd  which  certainly  was  far  greater 
than  usual.  So  much  greater,  that  his  attention  was  at 
length  aroused;  he  came  to  himself,  looked  round,  and 
wondered.  His  own  case  would  certainly  have  failed  to 
attract  any  special  notice.  For  what,  then,  were  these 
spectators  waiting  ?  and  why  did  they  all  stand  with  their 
faces  turned  to  the  great  door  which  he  was  just  now  ap- 
proaching ?  His  eyes  followed  theirs,  he  looked  forth  into 
the  murky  November  atmosphere,  and  saw  that  Palace  Yard 
was  full  of  soldiers. 

"  What  is  all  this  for  ?"  he  asked  of  his  jailer. 
"They  say  Colonel  Sidney  is  to  be  brought  up  for  trial," 
said  the  man,  indifferently. 

Hugo's  heart  beat  wildly.  Sidney's  prophecy  was,  then, 
coming  true !  "We  shall  meet  again  in  London."  Ay,  in- 
deed !  In  London,  but  in  what  a  manner !  The  one  com- 
ing forth  from  trial,  knowing  his  fearful  doom,  the  other 
going  to  receive  the  same  mockery  of  justice  at  the  hands 
of  the  same  unrighteous  judge. 

But  yet  he  should  see  his  friend  and  teacher  once  more, 
and  long  months  of  suffering  and  confinement  had  made 
Hugo  thankful  for  small  mercies.  He  should  see  him  once 
again,  he  should  meet  him  as  he  had  foretold  at  Penshurst. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  253 

And  now  they  had  almost  reached  the  great  door-way,  and 
the  tramp  of  soldiers  overpowered  the  confused  babel  of 
voices  in  the  hall.  Still  Hugo's  jailer  led  him  on,  hoping 
to  get  out  of  the  building  before  the  others  entered  it. 
But  at  the  very  threshold  his  aim  was  frustrated.  Grip- 
ping his  prisoner  fast  with  one  hand,  he  bade  him  wait  till 
the  incoming  stream  had  passed  by  and  had  made  motion 
more  possible.  Hugo,  forgetting  his  doom,  forgetting  all 
but  the  thought  of  seeing  Sidney,  breathed  a  silent  thanks- 
giving, and  waited  in  eager  expectation.  Soldiers  in 
bright  uniforms  passed  by  him,  sweeping  back  the  specta- 
tors ruthlessly,  but  taking  no  heed  of  the  jailer  and  the 
prisoner  in  the  door-way — his  very  misery  was,  in  this 
instance,  a  gain.  No  one  feared  a  rescue  from  him,  no  one 
cared  for  that  one  insignificant  prisoner,  with  his  hand- 
cuffs and  his  attendant  jailer. 

He  j  ust  stood  against  the  old  stone  moldings  of  the 
door- way,  and  the  strong  guard  of  soldiers  passed  on,  and 
at  length,  looking  out  into  Palace  Yard,  Hugo  could  dis- 
cern in  the  midst  of  them  the  dark/  plumed  hat  which 
must  belong  to  his  friend.  Slowly,  steadily,  the  procession 
moved  on.  Sidney  drew  nearer.  Hugo  could  see  his  face 
now  ;  he  looked  older  ;  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  fore- 
head and  around  his  mouth,  his  cheeks  were  hollow,  and, 
although  he  carried  his  head  high,  and  bore  his  usual 
aspect  of  stern  dignity,  Hugo  could  see  that  he  must  have 
suffered  much  from  the  prison  life,  for  all  his  air  of  health 
and  strength  was  gone,  and  he  evidently  walked  with  an 
effort.  Would  he  see  him  ?  Would  he  look  up  ?  That 
was  now  the  question  which  occupied  all  Hugo's  thoughts. 
That  terrible  business-like  tramp  of  soldiers'  feet  went  on 
in  maddening  monotony.  His  friend,  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  Would  he  not  give  one  glance  in  his  direction  ? 

Ah,  yes!  at  length  his  earnest  gaze  attracted  the  re- 
publican's notice.  He  looked  up  just  before  reaching  the 
threshold,  and  their  eyes  met.  Surprise,  pleasure,  regret, 
sympathy,  encouragement,  all  blent  together  in  that  one 
long  look,  which  was  all  that  the  master  could  give  his 
pupil. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  lad,  "  he  said,  and  looked  him 
through  and  through,  looked  at  him  long  and  lingeringly, 
as  those  look  who  are  borne  away  to  some  foreign  land 
and  bid  a  last  farewell  to  the  friends  who  stay  behind. 

And  Hugo's  gray  eyes  lit  up  with  eager  love,  and  the 
memory  of  his  doom  passed  from  him  altogether  as  he  re- 


254  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

peated  the  words  of  Sidney's  motto,  Sanctus  amor  patrice 
dal  animum. 

Sidney  heard  the  words,  turned  back  once  more,  and 
smiled,  a  smile  which  Hugo  could  always  recall,  a  smile 
which  lit  up  the  stern,  rugged  face,  and  made  it  beautiful 
as  a  true  and  noble  passion  has  power  to  do,  be  the  features 
what  they  may. 

Then  the  line  of  soldiers  closed  in  around  the  prisoner, 
and  soon  all  that  Hugo  could  see  was  the  broad-brimmed 
felt  hat  and  the  brown  periwig,  the  one  dark  spot  amid 
the  bright  uniforms  and  flashing  bayonet*. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  jailer,  giving  his  arm  a  little  shake, 
to  arouse  him. 

He  glanced  back  once  more — caught  a  last  vision  of  the 
old  hall,  with  its  dark,  vaulted  roof,  its  crowd  of  spectators, 
its  bright  line  of  infantry,  and  its  patriot  prisoner,  then 
turned  and  followed  his  guide  into  the  murky  November 
air  without. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

TEMPTATION. 

Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt ; 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthralled  ; 
Yea,  even  that  which  mischief  meant  most  harm 
Shall  in  the  happy  tidal  prove  most  glory  : 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil. 

MILTON. 

HUGO'S  trial  had  taken  place  on  the  7th  of  November,  and 
the  time  passed  on,  and,  though  each  day  he  asked  Scroop 
when  his  sentence  was  to  be  put  into  execution,  the  jailer 
could  never  give  him  any  definite  reply.  The  uncertainty 
was  terrible.  He  hoped  much  that  now  the  trial  was  over 
the  Denhams  would  have  been  allowed  to  visit  him,  but 
though  they  had  applied  for  leave,  Scroop  told  him  that 
they  had  been  peremptorily  refused.  He  was  deserted  of 
all  men,  save  Mr.  Ambrose  Philips,  who  still  visited  him 
with  great  assiduity  and  patience,  dilating  much  on  the 
horrors  of  the  punishment  which  awaited  him,  and  offering 
free  pardon,  if  only  he  would  appear  at  Colonel  Sidney's 
trial. 

It  appeared  that  on  the  7th  of  November,  Sidney  had 
been  brought  up  for  trial  and,  after  a  stormy  scene  with 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  255 

the  lord  chief-justice,  had  been  given  a  fortnight  in  which 
to  prepare  his  defense,  being  denied,  however,  the  aid  of 
counsel,  or  even  a  copy  of  the  indictment.  This  was  all 
that  Hugo  could  learn,  and  he  passed  a  hard  fortnight. 
Early  on  the  morning  of  the  20th  he  was  summoned  from 
his  crowded  ward;  was  it  to  go  out  to  his  fate,  he  won- 
dered? but  Scroop  reassured  him  and  spoke  cheering 
words  to  him  as  they  walked  along  the  stone  corridors. 

"  Keep  up  your  heart,  sir,"  he  said,  with  rough  kindness. 
"  There  is  a  chance  for  you  yet." 

He  then  took  his  charge  into  a  private  cell,  bidding  him 
wash  and  change  his  clothes,  and  to  make  all  speed  about 
it. 

Hugo,  greatly  wondering,  did  as  he  was  told,  and  then 
followed  the  jailer  to  the  main  entrance,  where  three  of- 
ficers in  plain  clothes  awaited  them.  Scroop  opened  the 
heavy,  iron  studded  door,  and  fresh  air  and  golden  sun- 
shine found  their  way  into  the  gloomy  jail  and  to  the 
prisoner,  who  looked  forth  with  eager  eyes.  He  was  hurried 
into  a  hackney-coach  which  stood  without,  the  officers  got  in 
with  him,  the  door  was  shut,  and  he  was  driven  off,  whither  he 
could  only  conjecture,  since  the  blinds  were  down,  and  the 
officers  would  give  him  no  information  whatever.  Was  it, 
perhaps,  the  day  of  Sidney's  trial  ?  Was  he  to  be  taken  to 
Westminster  Hall  and  induced  to  give  evidence  ?  If  so, 
he  resolved  to  take  refuge  in  silence,  he  would  not  risk 
being  confused  by  a  preplexing  string  of  questions.  At 
length  the  coach  stopped,  he  was  hurried  out  of  it  and 
taken  so  speedily  into  an  open  door-way  that  he  had  no 
time  to  make  out  what  the  place  was,  only  he  felt  sure  it 
was  not  Westminster.  He  was  taken  into  a  small  wains- 
coted room,  where  a  pleasant-looking,  middle-aged  man 
sat  at  a  table  writing  ;  the  officers  withdrew  and  left  them 
alone  together. ' 

"  You  will  wonder  who  I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  motion- 
ing him  to  sit  down  ;  "I  am  Dr.  Pratt,  and  I  have  been 
commanded  to  examine  into  the  state  of  your  health,  Mr. 
Wharncliffe." 

Hugo,  who  had  struggled  through  his  illness  without 
any  medical  aid,  submitted  to  a  thorough  examination, 
marveling  a  little  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all.  After  a 
a  while  it  began  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  very  much  out  of  health  ?" 
said  the  doctor. 

Hugo  replied  that  he  was  quite  aware  of  the  fact. 


256  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  I  fear  there  is  one  thing,  however,  of  which  you  are  not 
aware,"  said  the  doctor,  kindly.  "  They  tell  me  you  are  to- 
morrow to  be  whipped  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn.  Now,  in 
your  present  state  of  health  such  a  punishment  as  that 
will  cost  you  your  life." 

"  To-morrow,"  repeated  Hugo.  "  "Will  it  be  to-morrow  ?" 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  curiously  and  with  some  com- 
passion. 

"  Ay,  so  they  tell  me.  But  you  do  not  hear  what  is  of  far 
more  importance — I  assure  you  that  such  a  punishment  will 
cost  you  your  life." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  hear  plainly  enough,"  said  Hugo,  thought- 
fully. "  And  did  life  mean  to  you  merely  eternal  Newgate, 
methinks  you  might  look  on  death  with  other  eyes." 

The  doctor  rose  hastily  and  took  two  or  three  turns  up 
and  down  the  room  before  again  speaking. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  sir  ;  I 
have  done  what  they  bade  me  do  and  have  given  you  fair 
warning.  'Tis  not  for  me  to  argue  with  you,  others  will  do 
that." 

"Ay,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little,  "there  is  no  lack  of 
arguers.  To  listen  to  them  is  the  employment  of  my  life, 
and  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  sparing  your  breath  and  my 
patience." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  and  deep  thought.  It  was  to 
be  to-morrow,  then,  to-morrow! 

The  doctor  regarded  him  closely  for  a  minute  ;  then, 
with  a  sigh  and  shake  of  the  head,  opened  the  door  and 
summoned  the  officers. 

In  silence  they  led  the  prisoner  up  a  winding  staircase, 
dark  and  narrow,  which  opened  into  a  large  and  hand- 
somely furnished  bedroom  ;  here  an  usher  met  them,  and 
led  them  in  through  corridors  and  empty  rooms  to  the  dgor 
of  an  apartment  which  somehow  had  to  Hugo  a  familiar 
air.  When  it  was  opened  the  first  thing  which  met  his 
gaze  was  the  "  Noli  me  Tangere  "  of  Hans  Holbein.  He 
knew  then  that  he  was  at  Whitehall,  and  had  been  ad- 
mitted by  the  private  staircase,  of  which  he  had  heard 
rumors  in  the  old  times.  He  breathed  a  little  faster  as  the 
usher  went  on  before  to  announce  them;  then,  returning, 
bade  them  come  in.  How  strangely  different  it  was  from 
that  evening  long  ago,  when  he  had  last  entered  this  room 
in  company  with  the  little  Duchess  of  Grafton.  Involun- 
tarily he  sighed.  Life  had  looked  so  very  bright  to  him 
that  evening.  Coming  to  himself,  he  noticed  that  his  com- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  257 

panions  were  bowing  low.  He,  too,  bowed  mechanically, 
and  then,  looking  up,  saw  that  the  king  was  sitting  at  a 
table  amusing  himself  by  dissecting  a  little  Dutch  clock. 
He  looked  much  older  than  when  Hugo  had  last  seen  him, 
his  face  had  lost  much  of  its  easy  good-nature,  he  seemed 
gloomy  and  ill,  while  there  was  an  unhealthy  yellowish 
tinge  in  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  and  the  lines  and  wrinkles 
in  his  face  were  very  apparent. 

"  I  would  speak  with  the  prisoner  alone,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  chief  officer.  "  Hath  he  been  searched?" 

The  officer,  with  many  apologies,  replied  in  the  negative. 

"  Then  let  it  be  done,"  said  Charles,  querulously.  "  I 
marvel  that  in  these  days  of  treachery  you  bring  a  man 
from  jail  into  my  presence  with  so  little  precaution." 

The  officer  was  about  to  lead  Hugo  from  the  room  when 
something  in  the  prisoner's  face  made  the  king  inter- 
fere. 

"  Nay,  hold,"  he  exclaimed.  "  We  do  but  waste  time,  for, 
now  I  think  of  it,  this  gentleman  speaks  the  truth  even  to 
his  liege  lord.  Have  you  aught  concealed  about  you,  Mr. 
Wharncliffe?" 

Hugo  opened  his  doublet,  and  produced  a  book,  a  tiny 
parcel,  and  a  letter.  The  officer  handed  them  to  the  king 
at  his  request,  and  then  withdrew,  leaving  Charles  alone 
with  the  prisoner.  The  book  was  Joyce's  St.  John  ;  the 
king  merely  glanced  at  it,  and,  to  Hugo's  relief,  did  not 
read  the  words  written  within.  The  parcel  he  unfolded  ; 
it  contained  a  lady's  handkerchief  embroidered  in  one 
corner  with  a  J.  At  sight  of  this  he  smiled  broadly,  and 
looked  once  more  the  good-natured  monarch  of  former 
times. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Wharncliffe,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "One 
touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.  King  or 
prisoners,  we  are,  after  all,  alike  in  this  particular." 

Hugo  made  no  reply,  and  managed  to  school  his  face  in- 
to courteous  passiveness.  Inwardly  he  raged,  and  only 
longed  to  snatch  Joyce's  handkerchief  from  the  king's 
hands. 

Charles  took  up  the  letter.  It  was  the  one  which  Sidney 
had  sent  by  Betterton,  and  the  king's  face  grew  dark  as 
he  read  it.  The  perusal  took  him  some  time,  and  Hugo 
fell  into  a  reverie.  At  another  time  the  thought  of  a 
private  interview  with  the  king  might  have  awed  him  a 
little,  but  kings  sunk  into  insignificance  before  the  news 
which  had  just  been  givrn  him.  He  was  to  suffer 


258  IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

morrow — and  to  die.  He  had  much  to  settle,  muc^i  to 
think  over,  and  but  a  few  hours  left  him. 

The  king  folded  the  letter,  and  looked  across  "at  the 
silent  figure  which  stood  opposite  to  him,  taking  in  with 
his  keen  eyes  every  smallest  detail,  the  clothes  which 
seemed  to  hang  loosely  upon  their  wearer,  the  quiet,  pen- 
sive face,  with  its  suggestion  of  latent  power,  the  strange 
calmness  of  the  expression  both  of  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

It  was  a  bitter  November  day ;  Hugo  involuntarily 
glanced  toward  the  fire,  and  the  glance  seemed  to  make 
an  opening  for  an  interview  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  was 
sufficiently  embarrassing  to  the  king. 

"  You  look  cold,"  he  said,  not  unkindly.  "  Do  they  not 
give  you  fires  in  Newgate  ?" 

"  Ay,  my  liege,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "  But  there 
are  many  of  us,  and  the  ward  is  large,  therefore  it  is  not 
often  that  one  can  come  nigh  it." 

Never  was  there  a  less  formal  monarch  than  Charles;  he 
motioned  to  the  prisoner  to  sit  down  beside  the  hearth, 
and  leaving  the  table  with  the  Dutch  clock,  he  took  a  seat 
opposite  him. 

"  You  have  seen  the  leech,  they  tell  me,"  he  resumed, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "What  did  he  tell  you?" 

"  That  I  have  probably  but  one  more  day  in  this  world, 
sire,"  said  Hugo,  warming  his  hands  at  the  fire. 

"  Ton  my  soul,  you  seem  to  take  it  quietly  enow,"  said 
the  king.  "  Hath  life  no  charms  for  one  of  your  years  ?" 

"  It  hath  many  charms,  sire,  while  I  sit  here,"  said  Hugo, 
glancing  round  the  beautiful  room.  "But  I  have  lived 
through  months  of  misery,  and  in  Newgate  I  find  no  charms, 
but  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  sickness,  vile  companions 
and  days  of  wretchedness." 

The  king  looked  at  him  with  uneasy  compassion. 

"  Can  you  imagine  what  made  me  command  your  pres- 
ence this  day?"  he  asked. 

"  Hitherto  there  hath  been  but  one  end  sought  in  every 
interview,  my  liege,  therefore  I  presume  that  your  majesty 
also  hath  the  same  in  view." 

"  Ay,  they  told  me  you  were  stubborn  as  a  mule  ;  there- 
fore " — and  Charles  smiled  the  peculiarly  charming  Stuart 
smile  which  had  won  so  many  hearts — "  therefore  I  sent 
for  you.  Come,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  believe  you  to  be  my 
loyal  subject  in  your  heart  of  hearts  ;  you  have  but  been 
lead  astray  by  evil  men.  I  will  overlook  all  the  past,  so 
only  you  consent  to  give  evidence  against  Colonel  Sidney. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  259 

You  have  withstood  Ambrose  Philips,  but  I  think  you  will 
scarcely  withstand  your  sovereign  when  he  asks  you  to  do 
this  as  a  personal  favor.  Believe  me,  it  is  but  to  few  men 
that  I  could  bring  myself  to  make  such  a  request." 

Again  that  fascinating  smile,  that  winning  tone  of  voice. 
Hugo's  heart  beat  fast,  and  the  color  rose  in  his  pale  face. 
"  Sire,  I  crave  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  impos- 
sible—altogether impossible." 

"  You  do  not  realize  the  difference  it  will  make,"  said  the 
king,  quietly.  "Consent,  and  you  are  free  this  instant. 
Consent,  and  I  will  give  you  a  post  about  my  person  ;  YOU 
shall  have  all  that  heart  can  wish.  On  the  other  hand,  per- 
severe in  your  refusal,  and  on  the  morrow  you  will  suffer 
the  most  horrible  and  degrading  of  punishments,  intoler- 
able to  one  of  your  birth  and  breeding,  and  in  this  worth- 
less, miserable  way  you  will  end  your  life.  Say,  do  you  not 
shrink  from  this?"' 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo — nothing  but  that  monosyllable — no 
courteous  title,  no  comment  on  the  king's  speech,  but  yet 
in  the  one  word  a  whole  world  of  expression — all  the  con- 
centrated pain  of  those  weary  months,  all  the  terrible  ap- 
prehension, all  the  shrinking  sensitiveness,  all  the  loathing 
of  the  shame  and  publicity,  all  the  natural  clinging  to  life 
and  liberty. 

The  king  was  touched  ;  there  was  a  painful  silence. 
"  Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  after  a  time,  in  his  persuasive 
voice — '  do  you  not  see  how  great  is  the  stake  you  hold? 
Here  is   a  chance  offered  you  of  changing  the  history  of 
your  country." 

Hugo  looked  up,  the  moment's  agony  was  past,  there  was 
a  light  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"  But  already  that  chance  is  mine,  my  liege.  What  if  I 
do  suffer  to-morrow — what  if  I  die?  It  is  naught,  for 
Colonel  Sidney  will  be  free." 

"  You  are  greatly  mistaken,"  said  Charles,  his  face  dark- 
ening. "  Colonel  Sidney  must  die.  Naught  can  alter  that. 
The  decree  has  gone  forth,  and  it  must  be." 

"But  there  is  but  my  Lord  Howard  to  witness  against 
him,"  said  Hugo.  "  He  can  not  be  executed,  my  liege,  on 
the  word  of  one  witness — and  such  a  witness!" 

"  I  know  of  no  '  can  not '  in  such  a  case,"  said  the  king, 
coldly.     "There  were  plenty  of  'cannots'  at  the  trial  of 
our  blessed  martyr,  yet  in  the  end  his  death  was  com- 
passed." 
.  "Ah!  my  liege,  have  you  forgotten  that 'twas  Colonel 


260  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Sidney  who  nobly  refused  to  have  aught  to  do  with  that 
sentence  ?  Is  this  your  reward  for  his  honesty  ?  Will  you 
be  less  merciful  to  him,  less  generous?  Nay,  'tis  no  ques- 
tion of  generosity,  but  of  simple  justice,  for  he  is  not  guilty. 
Oh !  my  liege,  my  liege,  you  can  not  think  that  such  a  man 
as  Sidney  would  stoop  to  such  meanness — would  attack  any 
man  at  a  disadvantage  ?  You  can  not  think  that  such  a  one 
would  league  himself  with  mere  desperadoes  like  the  Bye- 
House  men?" 

"  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  plead  for  Colonel  Sidney," 
said  the  king,  gloomily.  "  I  tell  you  he  must  die  ;  say  no 
more." 

There  was  that  in  his  tone  which  conveyed  a  terrible 
conviction  to  Hugo's  heart.  He  could  not  conceal  his  an- 
guish. For  all  these  weary  months  had  been  rendered 
bearable  to  him  by  the  thought  that  he  was  suffering  for 
his  friend,  buying  his  freedom.  In  fact,  it  was  well  known 
that  the  evidence  against  Sidney  was  so  extremely  shaky 
that  almost  everybody  had  deemed  it  probable  that  he 
would  merely  lie  in  the  Tower  for  a  time  and  then  would 
be  released  without  trial,  or,  if  brought  to  trial,  would 
certainly  escape  with  a  fine  or  imprisonment.  Now,  for  the 
first  time  the  truth  broke  upon  Hugo  :  he  could  do  nothing 
for  his  friend.  Eegardless  of  the  king's  presence  he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  have  spent  my  strength  in  vain  !"  he  groaned. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  we  have  been  urging  upon  you 
all  these  months,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,"  said  the  king,  more 
cordially.  "You  have,  indeed,  spent  your  strength  in  vain 
— do  not  in  the  bargain  throw  away  your  life;  give  me  your 
word  that,  instead  of  going  forth  to  meet  that  insuffera- 
ble punishment  to-morrow  you  will  repair  to  Westminster, 
to  Colonel  Sidney's  trial,  and  you  are  free  from  this 
moment.  Do  you  not  see  what  a  great  opportunity  we 
give  you  ?  In  any  case  Colonel  Sidney  will  die,  but,  by 
the  help  of  your  evidence  you  may,  as  we  said  before, 
alter  the  history  of  this  land,  you  may  do  us  the  greatest 
possible  service.  Say,  lad,  will  you  refuse  me  ?" 

"  Your  majesty  asks  me  to  bear  false  witness  against  a 
friend,"  said  Hugo.  "  How  can  I  help  but  refuse  ?" 

"  Could  you  save  him  by  silence,  that  were  another  mat- 
ter," said  Charles.  "  But  you  can  not  do  so,  his  fate  is 
fixed.  Therefore,  for  your  own  sake  and  for  ours  also,  I 
beg  you  to  think  of  what  liberty  means.  Me  thinks  you 
are  like  to  break  the  heart  of  this  fair  Juliet,  or  whatever 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  261 

her  name  be,  who  owns  this  handkerchief,  an  you  choose 
death  and  dishonor." 

Hugo's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  a  vision  of  Joyce 
before  him.     The  king  made  haste  to  follow  up  his  advan- 
tage. 

"  Only  do  this,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  and  you  shall  wed  this 
fair  damsel,  and  live  in  peace  and  honor.  I  give  you  my 
word  that  nothing  sball  come  betwixt  you." 

"  My  liege,"  said  Hugo,  recovering  himself,  "  did  I  do 
this  I  should  not  be  fit  to  have  her.  I  respectfully  refuse 
your  majesty's  request." 

With  a  fiown  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  Charles 
crossed  the  room,  and,  opening  the  door  which  led  into  the 
adjoining  library,  spoke  a  few  words  to  some  one  within. 
Hugo  did  not  hear  them,  he  was  lost  in  thoughts  of  Joyce. 
He  came  to  himself  as  the  king  returned,  and  the  words 
fell  upon  his  ears,  "  Stubborn  as  a  mule,  and  if  you  read 
this  letter  you  may  perchance  gather  the  reason." 

Thereupon  the  king  took  up  Sidney's  letter  and  held  it 
out  to  some  one  who  followed  him.  Hugo  glanced  round, 
and  with  an  irrepressible  exclamation  started  to  his  feet, 
for  the  king  had  spoken  to  Randolph. 

The  brothers  greeted  each  other  silently.  Then  Ran- 
dolph read  the  letter  with  darkening  brow. 

"  'Tis  this  traitor  who  hath  led  him  astray  !"  he  said  at 
the  close,  and  he  would  have  torn  the  letter  in  pieces  had 
not  Hugo  darted  forward. 

"Hold!"  he  cried,  passionately.  "The  letter  is  mine; 
you  shall  not  tear  it."  Randolph  paused,  and  Hugo 
turned  to  the  king.  "My  liege,  I  showed  it  at  your 
request  ;  but  it  is  mine,  he  has  no  right  to  it.  Bid  him 
restore  it,  sire,  I  beg  you." 

"  Ay,  give  it  back,  Randolph,"  said  the  king,  carelessly, 
"  There,  take  back  all  of  your  treasures,  I  have  no  wish  to 
deprive  you  of  them,  and  you  had  best  take  leave  of  your 
brother,' for  you  are  not  like  to  see  him  again,  unless  he 
succeeds  better  than  we  have  done  in  making  you  hearken 
to  reason." 

So  saying  Charles  picked  up  a  spaniel  which  had  curled 
itself  round  in  his  vacant  chair  and  strolled  into  the  li- 
brary, fondling  the  dog's  long  ears. 

"I  have  one  more  chance  to  offer  yon,"  said  Randolph, 
sternly.  "You  have  ungraciously  refused  the  king's  re- 
quest, but  you  may  yet  save  yourself  by  witnessing  agaii?rt 
Colonel  Wharncliffe." 


262  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Hugo  made  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

"  For  God's  sake  begin  not  that  again.  Have  I  not  said 
I  will  never  do  it  ?  Have  I  not  sworn  it  ?" 

"  Yet  all  things  are  changed  since  your  trial,"  said  Ran- 
dolph, much  more  gently.  "  Hugo,  an  you  love  me,  save 
me  from  this  misery,  let  me  not  have  this  disgrace  thrust 
on  to  me  !  Save  me  from  the  pain  and  ignominy  of  having 
brother  of  mine  whipped  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn  like  a 
common  criminal." 

"  That  lay  in  your  power,  but  scarce  in  mine,"  said  Hugo, 
hoarsely. 

It  was  far  harder  to  refuse  Randolph  than  to  refuse  the 
king. 

"  It  is  in  your  power  to  be  free  to-morrow,  by  only  prom- 
ising to  reveal  what  you  know,"  said  Randolph;  and  there 
was  such  real  anxiety,  such  real  solicitude,  in  his  face,  that 
Hugo  was  obliged  to  take  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room 
before  he  could  answer  him. 

"  I  will  reveal  nothing,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  I  ought  to 
have  known  nothing." 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  which  finally  con- 
vinced Randolph  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  errand.  His 
regret  and  anxiety  and  baffled  hope  turned  to  hot  an- 
ger. 

"You  are  a  fool!  a  traitor!"  he  thundered.  "Your 
blood  be  on  your  own  head !  Think  not  to  lay  the  blame 
on  me,  an  they  whip  you  into  a  ghost.  You  are  a  traitor  to 
your  king,  to  your  country,  and  to  me  !  I  disown  you !" 

With  a  gesture  as  if  this  were  more  than  he  could  bear, 
Hugo  turned  away;  Randolph,  with  blazing  eyes,  laid  a 
strong  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  forced  him  to  turn 
round. 

"  For  the  last  time,"  he  said,  speaking  through  his  teeth, 
in  a  voice  of  repressed  passion,  "  wiil  you  shield  this  trai- 
tor no  longer?  Will  you  reveal  what  you  know  of  Colo- 
nel Wharncliffe.  Will  you  confess  what  was  in  the  pa- 
pers ?" 

Tiie  last  time  they  had  touched  each  other  it  had  been 
in  the  dungeon.  Some  recollection  of  this  came  to  both. 
Randolph  would  not  suffer  his  face  to  move  a  muscle, 
though  he  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  stab  of  pain,  but 
Hugo's  lips  began  to  quiver. 

"I  will  not,  I  can  not!"  he  said,  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  Death  itself,  ay,  and  even  your  displeasure,  were  better 
fcjLiu  such  villainy!" 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS,  263 

"  To  the  death  you  deserve  then,"  said  Randolph,  remov- 
ing his  hand.  "  And  may  the  devil  take  your  soul !" 

He  turned  to  go,  but  before  he  had  reached  the  door 
Hugo  had  sprung  forward  in  an  agony  and  clutched  at  his 
arm. 

"Randolph!  Randolph!"  he  cried;  and  there  was  such 
anguish  in  his  voice  that,  in  the  adjacent  room  the  king 
began  to  hum  a  love-song  to  himself,  to  drown  the  sound. 
"  Go  not  like  that !  Go  not  with  such  words  !  I  shall  never 
see  you  again !  For  God's  sake  bid  me  farewell !" 

"  Unhand  me !"  said  Randolph,  roughly.  Then,  as  Hugo 
still  retained  his  hold,  he  shook  himself  free  with  a  volley 
of  oaths.  "  Have  I  not  disowned  you,  and  cursed  you  ? 
What  more  would  you  have  ?  Go  to  your  fate !  You  are 
naught  to  me  1" 

He  strode  out  of  the  room,  and  there  was  silence,  until 
in  a  few  minutes  the  king  strode  back  again,  still  fondling 
the  little  spaniel.  Hugo  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair, 
with  his  arms  stretched  across  the  table  and  his  face  hid- 
den. The  king  could  hear  his  hard  breathing ;  he 
watched  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  I  have  tried  to  save  you,"  he  said  at  length,  regretfully. 
"  'Tis  your  own  doing — you  will  not  be  saved." 

Hugo  hastily  raised  himself.  His  face  was  white  and 
haggard;  but  the  king's  words  seemed  to  awaken  in  his 
mind  a  fresh  train  of  thought,  and  for  the  time  to  divert 
him  from  the  recollection  of  Randolph's  cruelty. 

"  You  would  save  me,  the  unworthy,  my  liege,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  You  would  fain  show  mercy  to  me,  then,  why 
not  to  one  who  demands  infinitely  more  at  your  hands  ?  I 
deemed  Colonel  Sidney's  fate  rested  with  me,  but  I  was 
cruelly  deceived.  His  fate  rests  with  your  majesty.  You 
tell  me  that  I  may  change  the  course  of  history,  but  oh, 
sire !  think  how  great  a  change  might  be  effected  by  your 
majesty.  Think  how  by  one  just  and  generous  deed  your 
majesty  might  endear  yourself  to  future  generations.  My 
God !  to  think  what  power  rests  with  one  man !" 

There  was  something  so  heartfelt  in  the  last  ejaculation 
that  Charles  was  not  offended  by  it,  even  though  he  felt 
reproached  by  the  prisoner's  searching  look  of  mingled 
wonder  and  despair.  That  moment  did  for  Hugo  what  all 
Sidney's  teachings  had  failed  to  do,  it  made  him  a  true  re- 
publican. He  glanced  round  the  beautiful  room  with  its 
tapestried  walls,  its  fine  pictures,  its  curious  clocks  and 
pendules,  its  silken  curtains  and  rich  carvings;  he  looked 


264  IN   THE   GOLDEN   DAYS. 

long  at  the  hard-featured  man  in  black  velvet  doublet  and 
brown  periwig,  who  still  idly  toyed  with  his  little  dog.  He 
looked  at  the  sensual  eyes,  which  glanced  now  at  him,  now 
at  the  spaniel;  he  looked  at  the  voluptuous  lips,  about 
which  there  lurked  now  a  faint  smile,  for  to  Charles  there 
was  always  something  laughable  in  earnestness. 

"  I  see  you  deem  the  power  ill  placed,"  said  the  king, 
good-humoredly.  "  Well,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  need  detain 
you  no  longer,  for  we  do  but  waste  time,  and  you  will  not 
serve  my  purpose." 

With  that  he  held  out  his  hand  graciously,  intending  to 
show  a  very  unusual  mark  of  confidence  and  condescension 
in  permitting  the  prisoner  to  kiss  it.  But  to  his  surprise 
Hugo  drew  back. 

"  Pardon  me,  sire,"  he  said,  bowing,  and  coloring  crim- 
son with  the  effort  of  uttering  such  words.  "  There  is 
blood  upon  it." 

The  king  swore  a  deep  oath,  and  his  dark  face  turned 
almost  purple  for  a  minute.  But,  recovering  his  self- 
possession,  he  gave  a  careless  laugh. 

"  You  are  a  true  disciple  of  Algernon  Sidney,"  he  said, 
marveling  a  little  that  one  of  so  sensitive  a  temperament 
should  have  adopted  such  principles,  or  have  been  capa- 
ble of  showing  himself  so  disagreeably  consistent  with 
them."  "  I  pardon  your  blnntness,  however,  for  though 
you  are  no  courtier,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  believe  you  to  be 
an  honest  man  misled  by  those  who  should  have  known 
better.  Remember  that  I  tried  to  save  you." 

With  that  the  officers  were  summoned,  and  Hugo,  bow- 
ing low,  looked  his  last  at  the  king,  and  was  led  from  the 
room. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  .65 

CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

HUGO'S     LAST     DAY. 

Love  is  a  spirit  high,  presuming, 
That  falleth  oft  ere  he  sit  fast; 
Care  is  a  sorrow  long  consuming. 
Which  yet  cloth  kill  the  heart  at  last. 
Death  is  a  wrong  to  life  and  love; 
And  I  the  pains  of  all  must  prove. 

SIB  PHTLIP  SYDNEY. 

"  SCROOP,"  said  Hugo,  as  the  jailer  led  him  back  to  his 
ward,  "it  is  all  up  with  me,  and  to-morrow  you'll  be 
troubled  by  me  no  longer.  Say,  will  you  do  me  one  favor 
ere  we  part  ?" 

The  jailer,  to  his  secret  indignation,  felt  a  curious  moist- 
ure about  his  eyes. 

"  Let's  hear  first  what  it  may  be,"  he  said,  gruffly. 

"  'Tis  no  great  matter,"  said  Hugo.  "  An  inkhorn,  a 
a  goosequill,  three  sheets  of  letter-paper,  and  to-night  your 
promise  to  convey  the  budget  to  Sir  William  Denham's 
house  in  Norfolk  Street." 

The  jailer  promised  to  grant  him  this  favor,  and  indeed, 
short  of  allowing  him  to  escape,  he  would  have  done  al- 
most anything  for  him,  for  over  his  rough  and  semi-bru- 
alized  nature  Hugo  had  acquired  a  most  strange  influence. 

The  contrast  between  "Whitehall  and  the  Common  Debt- 
or's ward  struck  upon  Hugo  sharply  as  once  more  he  found 
himself  in  his  prison  quarters.  The  ward  was  bitterly  cold, 
though  a  fire  burned  in  the  grate,  over  which  several  of  the 
prisoners  were  making  preparations  for  dinner,  cooking 
such  scraps  of  meat  or  vegetables  as  they  had  been  able  to 
secure,  either  with  their  own  money  or  by  the  charity  of 
the  London  shop-keepers.  These  were  in  the  habit  of 
placing  stale  bread,  and  such  bones  and  scrapings  as  they 
could  spare,  in  baskets  provided  for  that  purpose,  with  an 
appeal  for  "  Some  bread  and  meat  for  the  poor  prisoners  in 
Newgate  !  For  the  Lord's  sake  pity  the  poor!" 

Those  who  were  not  cooking  were  smoking,  drinking, 
dicing,  or  quarreling,  while  above  the  confused  uproar  there 
rose  an  unusual  sound — the  sound  of  a  child's  voice  crying 
bitterly.  Hugo,  shaking  himself  free  from  the  importunate 
questioners  who  would  fain  have  learned  where  he  had  been 
to,  made  his  way  to  that  part  of  the  ward  whence  the 


266  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

crying  came.  A  pitiful  little  group  met  his  gaze  as  be 
drew  near.  Upon  the  floor  sat  a  delicate-looking  woman, 
trying  to  comfort  the  sobbing  child  in  her  arms;  beside 
her,  playing  unconcernedly  with  an  apple,  was  a  little  fel- 
low of  three  years  old,  his  bright  face  quite  free  from  care 
or  anxiety,  and  contrasting  painfully  with  that  of  the 
father,  who  stood  close  by,  a  sombre-looking  Puritan,  upon 
whose  face  there  now  rested  the  shadow  of  grievous  troub- 
le. He  was  not  an  attractive  looking  man,  but  he  seemed 
so  miserable,  and  looked  so  out  of  place  amid  his  surround- 
ings, that  Hugo  felt  impelled  to  make  some  sort  of  advance 
to  him. 

"Metlrinks  you  are  a  new-comer,  sir,'*  he  said,  court- 
eously, with  a  vivid  recollection  of  his  first  day  in  the 
ward,  and  a  longing  to  do  what  he  could  for  this  forlorn 
group. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Nonconformist,  severely,  "  I  am  a 
new-comer,  and  I  do  not  desire  to  make  any  acquaintance 
in  this  foul  place." 

Hugo  felt  baffled,  but  would  not  give  in. 

"  'Tis  ever  harder  to  fresh  comers,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  An  you  have  not  dined,  I  will  go  yonder  and  forage  for 
you,  for  they  serve  strangers  but  roughly." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  crossed  the  ward,  and 
with  his  own  money  bargained  with  a  prisoner  who  was 
called  the  caterer  for  enough  dinner  for  himself  and  the 
strangers,  returning  with  some  very  passable  broth  and 
half  a  loaf. 

"  A  scanty  meal,  I  fear,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  but  the  best 
I  could  get.  The  children  look  hungry." 

It  was  not  in  the  heart  of  man  to  resist  such  kindness. 
The  sad-looking  Nonconformist  relented,  and  was  soon 
dining  with  his  fellow-prisoner. 

"  May  I  ask  your  name,  sir,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I 
looked  not  to  find  such  as  you  in  this  place." 

"  My  name  is  Wharncliffe,  and  I  got  into  trouble  over 
the  Plot.  But  this  is  like  to  be  my  last  day  here,"  said 
Hugo,  quietly,  having  no  mind  to  go  into  details  just  then. 

"  I,  sir,  am  one  Thomas  Delaune,"  said  the  Nonconform- 
ist ;  "  my  trial  doth  not  come  on  till  the  30th  of  this  month, 
but  they  would  not  admit  me  to  bail,  therefore  I  and  my 
wife  and  children  are  forced  to  come  here  ;  I  can  not  per- 
suade my  wife  to  leave,  nor  indeed  were  it  fitting  that  she 
remained  alone  with  no  protector." 

"  Yet  is  this  a  terrible  place  for  her,"  said  Hugo. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  267 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  the  Churchmen  who  force  us 
into  Newgate.  My  sole  offense,  sir,  is  that  I  accepted  the 
invitation  of  one  of  your  Church  of  England  men,  Doctor 
Calamy,  in  his  sermon  entitled  'A  Scrupulous  Conscience,' 
to  propose  our  doubts  with  respect  to  church  ceremonies. 
I  accepted  that  invitation  and  printed  in  reply  '  A  Plea  for 
Nonconformists.'  And  for  printing  that  work  am  I  here 
in  this  foul  place." 

"  But  surely  Doctor  Calamy  will  in  that  case  procure 
your  release  ?"  said  Hugo. 

"  I  know  not,  sir,"  said  Delaune.  "  Of  a  churchman  I 
never  expect  aught." 

"  I  am  a  churchman,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "  And 
now  methinks  you  must  have  divined  the  fact,  for  you 
were  loath  to  expect  aught  but  ill  from  me !" 

Delaune  would  fain  have  converted  him  tbere  and  then, 
but  before  long  Scroop  entered  with  the  writing  materials 
which  Hugo  had  asked  for,  and,  excusing  himself,  he  re- 
tired to  his  own  corner  to  write,  as  well  as  he  could  in  the 
din  and  uproar,  his  three  farewell  letters,  one  to  Mary 
Denham,  one  to  Algernon  Sidney,  one  to  Joyce. 

It  was  then  that  he  first  fully  realized  what  the  sentence 
of  death  meant.  They  were  terrible  letters  to  write — 
terrible  when  he  thought  of  himself,  more  terrible  when 
he  thought  of  those  to  whom  he  was  writing.  It  was  quite 
dusk  in  the  ward  before  he  had  finished — in  fact,  Scroop 
stood  beside  him  waiting  for  the  budget  before  he  had 
made  it  ready  ;  it  had  taken  him  far  longer  than  he  had 
thought,  and  had  cost  him  much.  The  jailer  watched  him 
in  grim  yet  not  unsympathetic  silence. 

"  You  will  bear  it  yourself  ?"  asked  Hugo,  sealing  the 
packet  and  handing  it  to  Scroop. 

"  What  matter  who  bears  it,  so  as  it  goes  ?"  said  the 
jailer. 

"  It  matters  to  me,"  said  Hugo,  "  because  I  trust  you, 
Scroop." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  bear  it,"  said  the  jailer,  and  without 
another  word  he  left  the  ward. 

Hugo  looked  wistfully  after  the  budget  ;  then,  as  the 
door  was  closed  and  locked  behind  the  jailer,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  He  had  spoken  boldly  at  White- 
hall, had  thought  of  the  miseries  of  his  life  at  Newgate, 
but,  fresh  from  that  last  letter  to  Joyce,  a  wild  clinging 
to  life,  a  wild  hope  of  escape,  an  intolerable  longing  for 
one  more  sight  of  his  love  had  overmastered  him.  With 


268  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

all  the  vividness  of  a  lively  imagination  he  lived  through  the 
horrible  fate  that  awaited  him  on  the  morrow — lived 
through  the  pain  and  the  shame  and  indignity,  strug- 
gled in  the  death  agony,  till  his  heart  sickened  and  his  brain 
reeled.  Not  even  the  quiet  of  the  condemned  cell  was  to 
be  his,  for  he  was  not  condemned  to  death,  only  he  had 
been  warned  of  bis  fate.  Laughter  and  brutal  jests  fell 
upon  his  ear;  the  ward  seemed  like  a  hell  that  night — yet 
that  night,  for  the  first  time,  he  nearly  succumbed  to  its 
temptations. 

A  number  of  drunken  revelers  were  sitting  not  far  from 
him ;  their  noisy  song  reached  him  distinctly  in  his  dusky 
corner;  he  watched  the  group  with  a  sort  of  fascination, 
and  listened  to  the  following  words  : 

"And  when  grim  death  doth  take  my  breath, 
He'll  find  me  with  boon  comrades  merry; 
He'll  find  me  drinking,  drinking  deep, 
Sing  derry  down,  down  deny  ! 
Death  we  defy  !    Pain  comes  not  nigh 
\Vhile  drinking,  drinking,  drinking  !" 

He  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  was  on  the  way  to  join  the 
merry  party,  when  something  dragging  at  his  doublet 
made  him  pause. 

He  looked  down,  and  saw  Delaune's  little  child.  All  the 
afternoon  he  had  been  contentedly  trundling  his  apple 
about  the  ward  ;  now  he  had  cut  it  in  half,  and,  hungrily 
eating  one  bit,  held  the  other  up  to  Hugo.  It  diverted  him 
from  his  purpose  ;  he  took  the  child  on  his  knee,  touched 
with  the  little  thing's  love  and  gratitude.  His  childish 
prattle  made  him  smile. 

Laughingly  they  fed  each  other  with  the  apple,  Hugo 
making  a  feint  of  eating  a  little  to  please  the  child.  At 
last,  when  all  was  finished,  the  little  one  began  to  yawn 
and  rub  his  eyes. 

"  Tom  sleepy  !"   he  said,  piteously  ;    "  no  bed  for  Tom." 

Hugo  was  roused  by  this  remark  ;  the  ward  was  terri- 
bly^ crowded  that  night,  for  in  the  last  few  days  there  had 
been  many  fresh  arrivals.  He  looked  around  and  saw  that 
Delaune  and  his  wife  and  her  babe  were  sitting  all  hud- 
dled up  together  on  a  rough  wooden  bench  at  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  They  looked  so  miserable  that  he  for- 
got his  own  misery  in  pitying  them.  What  could  be  done 
for  them  ?  He  looked  at  his  own  particular  corner  and  his 
uncomfortable  plank  bed.  It  would  be  better  than  noth- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  269 

ing.  Examining  the  place  carefully  be  found  two  nails  i:i 
the  angle  of  the  wall ;  he  tried  hanging  his  cloak  across 
the  corner,  but  it  made  a  very  ineffectual  screen.  Just  at 
that  minute  Scroop  returned  to  the  ward. 

"  Have  you  borne  the  letter  ?" 

Then,  as  the  jailer  nodded,  Hugo  placed  in  his  hand  one 
of  his  few  remaining  coins. 

"  Tli ere  is  one  thing  more  I  would  fain  have.  'Tis  the  last 
f avor  I  will  ask  of  you.  I  want  a  piece  of  sacking — a  large 
piece." 

The  jailer  muttered  something  inarticulate,  but  went 
away,  returning  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  piece  large  enough 
to  screen  off  as  much  of  the  crowded  ward  as  was  at  Hugo's 
disposal.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  it  up  ;  in 
doing  it  he  forgot  his  own  fate,  and  was,  for  the  time,  al- 
most happy,  while  Tom  sat  on  the  floor  watching  him  and 
sucking  his  thumb  philosophically. 

"  Now,  little  imp,"  said  Hugo,  smiling,  "  come  and  peep 
at  your  new  chamber." 

Tom  lifted  the  sacking  and  looked  in  at  the  dim  expanse 
of  planks. 

"  Comfy,"  he  said,  clapping  his  hands  and  laughing  mer- 
rily, "  comfy !" 

That  was  reward  enough  for  Hugo.  He  laughed  a  little, 
caught  the  child  up  in  his  arms  and  strode  across  the  ward 
to  speak  to  the  parents. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  can  for  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  Delaune. 
"Your  wife  will  find  a  sort  of  rough  shelter  yonder;  I  beg 
that  you  will  take  my  quarters  for  to-night,  for  I  shall  be 
gone  on  the  morrow." 

Delaune  grasped  his  hand  and  thanked  him  warmly. 
His  wife  did  not  speak,  but  as  she  rose,  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  she  looked  up  at  Hugo  with  a  gratitude  in  her 
eyes  which  lingered  pleasantly  in  his  memory.  But  not 
even  the  charms  of  the  dusky  little  corner  behind  the  cur- 
tain could  tempt  little  Tom  to  desert  his  new  friend;  he 
clung  tightly  to  him,  and  begged  so  piteously  to  be  "kept" 
that  Hugo  yielded,  and,  finding  by  good  chance  a  vacant 
place  beside  the  hearth,  crouched  down  on  the  ground  as 
near  the  fire  as  might  be,  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Take  me  wiv  you  on  the  morrow," said  Tom,  sleepily. 

There  was  such  a  babel  all  around  that  they  could  talk 
without  the  risk  of  being  overheard. 

"  I  can  not  do  that." 

"Why  can't  you  take  Tom,  too?" 


270  IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"Because  I  am  going  to  die." 

"  To  Die,"  repeated  Torn,  dreamily.  "  Where  is  Die  ? 
I  would  like  to  go,  too." 

"  Not  yet,  poor  little  imp,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  sadly. 
"  There,  kiss  me  and  go  to  sleep." 

The  child  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment  with  his 
solemn,  sleepy  eyes.  "  Good-night,"  he  said,  drowsily. 
"  But  I  wish  little  children  could  go  to  Die.  Die  is  better 
than  prison,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,J>  said  Hugo,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  "  it  is  bet- 
ter. Good-night,  little  one." 

The  rosy  lips  met  his,  and  almost  the  next  minute  the 
child  was  fast  asleep. 

After  awhile  the  drunken  revel  ended,  oaths,  songs, 
laughter  died  away  into  silence,  sleep  fell  on  the  wretched 
prisoners,  and  stillness  reigned  in  the  ward  ;  by  the  light 
of  the  dying  embers  Hugo  could  dimly  discern  the  outline 
of  the  prostrate  forms,  and  the  untroubled  face  of  the  little 
sleeping  child  on  his  knee.  He  was  glad  to  be  quiet ;  the 
solemn  stillness  seemed  to  calm  his  mind,  he  could  think 
of  the  morrow  with  less  dread,  could  see  through  to  the 
other  sic!*  of  the  suffering. 

"  Was  it  not  for  Joyce's  father  ?  Was  it  not  in  a  sense 
for  Sidney  ?"  He  could  think  of  Joyce  more  calmly  now — 
Joyce,  whom  he  had  bidden  to  hold  herself  as  free — Joyce, 
who  might  now  be  wooed  and  won  by  other  men.  That 
thought  did  not  torture  him  as  it  had  done  when  Scroop 
had  borne  away  the  budget.  He  lost  the  thought  of  him- 
self, thought  only  of  her  in  her  guileless  simplicity,  her 
sweet  purity.  Lovingly,  and  with  much  joy  mingled  with 
the  pain,  he  lingered  over  his  recollections  of  her.  In  the 
dreary  Newgate  ward  there  rose  up  for  him  the  fairest  of 
visions,  the  sweet,  sunshiny  face,  the  blue  eyes  that  had 
always  met  his  so  innocently  and  confidingly,  the  tender 
little  mouth  with  its  mingled  sweetness  and  firmness. 
Never  once  had  he  seen  a  shade  of  aught  that  was  hard  or 
better  in  her  expression.  Even  on  that  memorable  night 
when  he  had  made  his  confession  to  her,  when  with 
natural  indignation  she  had  turned  upon  him  with  the 
question,  "Why  did  you  seek  to  injure  my  father?"  there 
had  been  nothing  petty  or  personal  in  her  anger.  And 
how  soon  her  tender  charity  had  sought  an  excuse  for 
him  I  how  quick  she  had  been  to  check  that  impulse  to 
blamo  another! 

Far  on  into  the  night  he  sat  dreaming  of  her,  or  rather, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DATS.  271 

wakefully  living  through  again  that  brief  passage  in  his 
life  which  had  changed  his  whole  world,  as  love  does 
change  the  world  of  all  of  us,  for  good  or  for  ill.  His  arms 
grew  stiff  and  weary  with  holding  little  Torn,  but  he  could 
not  bear  to  disturb  the  child,  and  at  length  from  excessive 
weariness  he  fell  asleep,  forgetting  the  fatigues  of  the  long 
and  eventful  day,  nor  bestowing  one  thought  upon  them  in 
his  dreams.  For  two  hours  he  slept  as  tranquilly  as  a  child. 
But  toward  morning  he  dreamed  strangely. 

He  thought  he  was  once  more  in  Germany;  Count  Hugo's 
castle  on  the  Rhine  once  more  rose  before  him,  with  its 
brown  and  rugged  towers,  and  its  battlements  sharply  de- 
fined against  a  clear,  frosty  blue  sky.  Something  of  stir 
and  commotion  in  the  air  warned  him  of  change  in  that 
quiet  country-side,  and,  drawing  nearer  to  tie  foot  of  the 
hill  on  which  the  castle  stood,  he  saw  that  it  was  in  a  state 
of  siege,  and  that  the  enemy  had  pitched  their  tents  in  the 
valley.  He  could  hear  the  busy  sounds  of  life  coming  from 
the  camp,  could  see  the  soldiers  fetching  water  frcm  the 
Rhine,  and  at  the  door  of  the  largest  tent,  from  which 
floated  the  royal  pennon,  he  could  see  the  king  and  Ran- 
dolph talking  together.  Just  then  lie  became  aware  of  a 
sound  of  voices,  and  looking  up  he  saw  close  beside  him 
an  old  peasant  talking  to  a  little,  crying  child.  He  ap- 
proached them,  and  asked  who  the  child  was,  and  what  he 
did  there. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  peasant,  "  he  is  the  son  of  Count 
Hugo  up  yonder  at  the  castle,  but  the  count's  enemies 
have  taken  him  prisoner,  and  though  they  treat  him  kind- 
ly, and  let  him  roam  about  thus  far,  the  little  lad  frets  for 
his  father,  and  to  be  in  the  old  castle  once  m  re."  Thtn, 
turning  to  the  child,  "Yet  do  I  not  tell  thee,  boy,  that  'tis 
best  here,  where  thou  canst  eat  and  drink  as  thou  wilt 
with  no  let  or  hinderance." 

But  the  child  only  sobbed  the  more,  calling  for  its 
father,  and  for  one  to  bear  it  home. 

Hugo  looked  irresolutely,  now  at  the  royal  tent,  now  at 
the  crying  child.  Finally  he  thought  of  good  Count  Hugo, 
and  looked  at  the  castle  high  up  on  its  lofty  rock. 

"They  have  no  right,  no  right  to  steal  you!"  he  cried, 
suddenly,  snatching  up  the  child  in  his  arms. 

^  The  peasant  whimpered  something  about  the  "  divine 
right  of  kings." 

"Nothing  is  divine  save  the  just  and  the  loving!"  cried 


272  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Hugo.     "He  who  is  just  and  true  and  wise,  lie  who  lives 
for  the  people,  is  king  of  men — none  other." 

"  Bear  me  home  !"  sobbed  the  child.     "  Bear  me  home !" 

Then  he  gathered  himself  togethar,  and,  with  one  glance 

at  the  hostile  camp  below,  began  to  scale  the  steep  rock, 

and  he  knew  that  to  scale  it  meant  death  to  himself,  yet 

hoped  that  he  might  shield  the  child,  and  struggle  on  till 

he   reached   the   summit.     All  around   him   whizzed   the 

arrows ;     one    pierced    his    shoulder,   then   another  and 

another,  till  he  was  like  the  picture  of  St.  Sebastian  in  the 

church,  and,  growing  faint  with  loss  of  blood,  he  staggered 

and   almost  fell  with   his    burden.     But   the    child    was 

unhurt ;  that  nerved  him  to  struggle  on  to  the  end,  nerved 

him  to  resist  the  creeping,  numbing  cold  that  made  his 

limbs  almost  powerless.     At  last,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he 

dragged  himself  to  the  summit  of  the  rock,  and  staggered 

along  the  narrow  platform  which  led  from  the  di  aw-bridge  ; 

the   watchman   caught   sight   of  the   child,   ordered  the 

bridge  to  be  lowered,  and  gave  the  word  in    the  castle. 

There  was  a  great  shout  of  joy  raised,  and  a  sound  of  doors 

opening  and  many  feet  approaching,  while  Hugo  staggered 

across  the  court-yard,  and  laid  his  burden  at  the  feet  of 

his  great  namesake.     And  when,  exhausted  by  the  effort, 

he  lay  dying,  the  count  bent  over  him  with   a   beautiful 

smile  on  his  face,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  so  that  he  alone 

might  hearken  : 

"  It  is  the  Christ-Kind  you  have  carried." 
Then  yet   another  form   drew  near,  a  black-robed  form 
with  stern  face,  and  drawing  closer  so  as  to  hide  all  sight 
of  Count  Hugo  and  the  child,  he  laid  a  cold  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  said  : 

"  Your  time  is  come !  Has  death  no  terrors  for  you, 
that  you  lie  thus  smiling  ?" 

"  No  terrors  !"  he  exclaimed,  conscious  of  a  great  joy  in 
his  heart  of  which  he  could  not  speak.  "  No  terrors !  I 
die  for  the  Christ-Kind  !" 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Scroop  stood  beside  him,  shaking 
his  shoulder  roughly  but  not  unkindly. 

"  Well,  sir,  they  most  of  them  sleep  quiet  enough,  poor 
souls,  afore  they  go  out  to  die,"  he  said,  regarding  Hugo 
curiously  ;  "  but  I  never  yet  saw  one  who  could  speak  of 
dying  with  a  smile." 

Hugo  glanced  round  the  ward,  where,  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  winter  morning,  he  could  discern  the  worn  faces  of 
his  fellow-prisoners. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  273 

"  It  is  death  that  I  am  leaving  here,"  he  said,  thought- 
fully. Then  kissing  the  little  child,  who  still  slept  in  his 
arms,  he  placed  him  carefully  on  the  floor,  covering  him 
with  his  cloak.  "  Be  kind  to  that  little  imp  for  my  sake, 
Scroop,"  he  said. 

The  jailer  promised,  and  led  him  out  of  the  ward  to  his 
own  room,  where  he  had  prepared  a  breakfast  for  him. 
Hugo  was  touched.  He  tried  to  eat  enough  of  the  broiled 
beef,  and  to  drink  enough  of  the  spiced  ale,  to  satisfy 
Scroop,  who  hovered  over  him  with  a  restless  look,  which 
sat  strangely  on  his  hard,  grim  features.  Then  came  a 
final  interview  with  Ambrose  Philips,  one  more  ineffectual 
effort  to  make  him  yield ;  but  neither  threats  nor  re- 
proaches nor  taunts  could  ruffle  him  that  day.  Philips 
retired,  owning  himself  beaten,  -and  almost  immediately 
after  Scroop  returned. 

"  You  have  but  a  couple  of  minutes  more,  sir,"  he  said, 
his  gruff  voice  a  degree  gruffer  than  usual. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Hugo,  quietly;  and  kneeling,  he 
once  more  repeated  Mary  Denham's  collect,  breathed  the 
names  of  Joyce,   Colonel  Wharncliffe,  Sidney,   Randolph  ; 
then,  rising  to  his  feet,  threw  aside  his  doublet  and  vest. 
"  I  am  ready,"  he  said.     "  Lead  on." 
Scroop  thought  of  that  first  night,  when  he  had  led  him 
into  Newgate,  and  his  heart  smote  him. 

"  I  have  oftentimes  been  rough  and  rude  with  you,  sir," 
he  said,  regretfully  ;  "  I  crave  your  forgiveness." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  it,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "I 
should  have  fared  ill  without  you,  Scroop." 

After  that  he  did  not  speak,  but  walked  steadily  along 
the  cold  stone  passages.  Then  the  great  door  was  thrown 
wide,  and  he  was  led  forth.  The  cold  November  wind  on 
his  bare  shoulders  made  him  shiver  slightly;  but,  with 
head  erect,  he  walked  on,  fearlessly  taking  in  all  the  de- 
tails of  the  scene;  the  staring  crowd,  the  cart  and  horse, 
Ketch,  the  hangman,  armed  with  the  terrible  "cat," 
and  the  prison  official  waiting  with  a  cord  to  bind  his 
arms.  He  had  scarcely  advanced  more  than  two  or  three 
paces,  however,  when  there  was  a  movement  in  the  crowd, 
as  of  some  one  forcing  his  way  to  the  front.  A  moment 
more,  and  old  Jeremiah  rushed  forward,  his  blue  livery 
half  torn  off  his  back,  his  white  hair  streaming  in  the 
wind,  his  wrinkled  face  wet  with  tears. 

"  My  master !  my  dear  young  master !"  he  cried.  "  They 
can  not  keep  me  from  you  LOW  !' 


274  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Why,  Jerry !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  his  face  lighting  up. 
"  To  see  you  is  almost  worth  a  whipping.  Come  !  there  is 
no  call  to  weep  over  me.  I  shall,  at  any  rate,  be  a  man  of 
action  to-day!" 

But  at  this  Jeremiah  only  wept  the  more. 

"  Do  not  grieve/*  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice.  "  "Tis  for  the 
sake  of  one  whom  you  love.  A  less  glorious  and  sure  way 
of  helping  him  than  that  which  the  Ironsides  effected  at 
Mar sto n  Moor,  but — perhaps  not  wholly  inglorious  neither." 

In  comforting  the  old  serving  man  he  had  forgotten  to 
feel  the  humiliation  of  being  tied  to  the  cart's  tail,  and  the 
presence  of  the  old  soldier  gave  him  a  curious  strength. 

"They  cannot  part  me  from  thee  now,  lad,"  said 
Jeremiah,  dashing  the  tears  from  his  eyes  that  he  might 
see  more  clearly. 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  thoughtfully.  "Freedom  lies  along 
this  road,  Jerry." 

And  as  the  procession  moved  off,  and  that  last  terrible 
journey  began,  he  repeated  again  and  again  words  which 
had  often  comforted  him  in  Newgate, 

"Sleepe  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death  after  life,  does  greatly  please." 

And  Jeremiah  walked  side  by  side  with  his  master. 


CHAPTEE  XXX. 

JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

When  sorrow  would  he  seen, 

In  her  bright  majesty — 

For  she  is  a  queen — 

Then  is  she  dressed  by  none  but  thee  ; 

Then,  only  then,  she  wears 

Her  richest  pearls— I  nieau  thy  tears. 

Not  in  the  evening's  eyes, 
When  they  red  with  weeping  are, 
For  the  sun  that  dies, 
\  Sits  sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair ; 

Nowhere  but  here  doth  meet 
Sweetness  so  sad,  sadness  so  sweet. 

CBASHAW. 

NOVEMBER,  1683. — I  never  thought  months  could  seem  so 
long. 

But  five  have  passed  by  since  the  day  Hugo  was  borne 
away  from  Mondisfield,  and  yet  the  time  seems  to  me  more 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  275 

like  to  five  years.  "We  have  tried  to  go  on  just  as  usual, 
thinking  it  best  so,  but  oftentimes  it  has  been  hard  to  do 
it.  A  great  gloom  has  fallen  on  the  whole  place.  The 
corn  ripened  as  usual,  and  we  went  into  the  harvest-field 
and  watched  the  men  at  work  and  helped  the  women 
to  bind  the  sheaves,  and  afterward  went  a-gleaning,  as 
usual,  to  help  some  of  the  poorer  village  folk.  Then  came 
the  in-gathering,  bnt  with  no  harvest  supper,  for  how  could 
we  feast  and  make  merry  with  my  father  in  exile !  After 
that  came  the  apple-gathering,  which  made  me  think  of  that 
October  day  last  year  when  I  first  saw  Hugo.  It  seems  to 
me  now  passing  strange  to  think  of  that  duel  upon  which 
so  much  hinged.  It  frightens  me4o  recollect  how  much 
has  in  truth  sprung  from  just  that  simple  fact  that  Evelyn 
and  I  went  into  the  road  a-blackberrying.  If  we  had  not 
gone  there  would  have  been  no  duel,  no  meeting  of  Hugo, 
no  delay  of  their  cavalcade  at  the  White  Horse,  no  knowl- 
edge of  Mr.  Ferguson's  visit,  no  dispersal  of  the  congrega- 
tion in  the  barn,  no  secret  clew  for  Cousin  Randolph  to 
work  upon,  no  temptati<  >n  for  Hugo,  no  exile  for  my  father. 
I  suppose  it  is  indeed  ever  so,  and  that  upon  all  our  trivial 
actions  and  words  there' follow  long  chains  of  results  that 
we  little  dream  of  at  the  time.  And  this,  methinks,  is  a 
conviction  which  should  sober  us  impulsive  folk,  and  make 
us  seek  right  patiently  the  true  wisdom. 

April,  1684. 

I  was  writing  this  in  the  musicians'  gallery,  a  place  I  must 
ever  love  now  above  all  others  in  the  house,  when  I  heard 
the  galloping  of  horse's  feet  in  the  drive.  I  thought  it 
might  be  the  postboy  with  perchance  a  letter  from  my 
father,  for  now  that  he  is  in  safety  at  Amsterdam  he  has 
ventured  to  write  to  my  mother  more  than  once.  Running 
down  the  stairs  with  all  speed,  I  hurried  out  to  the  door, 
and  had  flung  it  open  just  as  the  postboy  reined  in  his 
steed,  a  gallant  bay,  with  wreaths  of  foam  on  his  neck,  for 
the  posit  ever  rides  apace.  The  boy  raised  his  hat  respect- 
fully, and  took  from  his  bag  a  letter — actually  a  letter  for 
me — the  first  I  ever  received  in  my  life.  I  knew  in  an  in- 
stant that  it  must  be  from  Hugo,  and  this  I  suppose  must 
have  shown  in  my  face,  for  the  postboy,  well  pleased,  mut- 
tered something  which  I  had  rather  he  had  not  so  much 
as  thought,  and  made  me  blush  hotly.  I  ran  quickly  in 
search  of  my  mother,  having  no  money  to  pay  the  postage, 
and,  finding  her  in  the  north  parlor,  showed  her  the  letter. 


276  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Stay  here  and  read  it,  my  little  daughter,"  she  said. 
"  I  will  pay  the  man." 

I  needed  no  second  bidding,  for  a  great  hope  had  arisen 
in  my  heart.  Surely,  if  Hugo  had  at  length  found  means 
to  write  to  me,  then  he  must  be  at  liberty  once  more,  or  at 
any  rate  in  less  strict  durance.  I  know  not  what  vain  castle 
in  the  air  I  bad  raised  even  while  breaking  the  seal,  for  I  fear 
it  hatli  ever  been  my  way  to  hope,  and  to  look  for  a  speedy 
end  to  all  care,  since  trouble  and  sorrow  doth  seem  foreign 
to  one's  nature.  Thus  the  sudden  downfall  of  the  vain 
hopes  made  the  reading  of  that  letter  all  the  harder;  I 
came  more  nigh  to  swooning  than  ever  before  in  my  life, 
yet  did  not  wholly  giveaway,  for  we  Wharncliffesare  strong 
and  healthy,  and  do  not  easily  succumb.  My  mother  was 
some  time  gone;  I  had  taken  that  one  fatal  glance  at  the 
letter,  and  then,  after  a  long  pause,  had  been  able  to  read 
it  steadily  through  before  she  returned.  It  was  very 
clearly  written;  indeed,  it  was  the  most  beautiful  and  deli- 
cate handwriting  I  had  ever  seen.  This  was  how  it  ran 
— I  copy  it  here  in  my  journal,  for  I  should  like  the  de- 
scendants to  know  how  true  and  noble  my  Hugo  was,  and 
naught  can  show  that  so  well  as  his  own  words  : 

"MY  DEAB  LOVE, — At  length  there  comes  to  me  an  opportu- 
nity of  writing  to  you  ;  my  jailer,  to  whom  I  owe  much,  and  who 
of  late  hath  ever  been  kind  to  me,  having  promised  to  bear  this 
letter  to  one  Mistress  Denhain,  a  friend  of  mine,  who,  knowing 
yoiir  name,  will,  withcmt  risk,  be  able  to  forward  this  to  you.  My 
dear  heart,  you  will  pardon  these  ill-penned  lines,  but  I  write  in 
the  midst  of  noise  and  confusion  in  the  common  prison,  and  my 
mind  is  like  to  the  ward — full,  too,  of  confusion  and  trouble.  ] 
do  not  know  whether,  perchance,  you  have  heard  of  my  trial, 
which  took  place  on  the  seventh  day  of  this  month.  My  sentence 
was,  as  I  had  looked  for,  lifelong  imprisonment,  with,  moreover, 
some  additional  severities,  which,  I  am  well  informed  are  like  to 
cost  me  my  life.  But,  dear  heart,  these  said  severities  are  in 
truth  a  kindness,  for  a  long  life  in  Newgate  would  be  a  sore  trial 
and  temptation.  Did  you  know  how  terrible  have  been  these  five 
months  since  I  parted  from  you — did  you  know  what  pain  and 
suffeTmg  I  have  borne,  and  what  grievous  temptation  hath  assailed 
me,  you  would  rejoice  when  hearing  that  he  who  loves  you — he 
whom  you  love — is  like  to  die  shortly. 

"  'Sleepe  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death  after  life,  does  greatly  please.' 

Often  have  those  words  comforted  me  in  my  dungeon;  and  though 
there  doth  at  times  come  the  craving  for  life,  and  the  pining  for 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  277 

liberty,  and  most  of  all  the  longing  for  you,  my  dear  one,  yet  I 
willingly  embrace  a  death  which  means  the  safety  and  life  of 
your  father,  and  which  may,  perchance,  blot  out  the  memory  of 
the  wrong  I  wrought  him.  I  pray  you  give  my  duty  to  both 
your  father  and  mother,  and  I  crave  their  forgiveness  for  all  my 
offenses.  Especially  I  trust  they  will  not  deem  that  I  did  very 
wrong  in  speaking  that  day  of  my  love.  In  any  case,  tell  them 
this — that  your  love  hath  been  to  me  as  a  strong  shield,  and  hath 
saved  me  from  hell  on  earth. 

"When  all  is  said,  however,  it  doth  still  remain  that  our  joy 
has  been  cruelly  short-lived.  But  at  least  let  me  feel  that  I  have 
not  spoiled  your  life — let  me  believe  that  you  will  not  be  the 
poorer  all  your  days  for  this  brief  interlude.  Above  all  things, 
I  would  have  you  happy.  To  have  saddened  those  dear  eyes,  to 
have  darkened  the  life  I  found  so  bright — that  would  indeed  be 
a  hard  fate.  Dear  one,  I  pray  that  you  will  not  let  this  fate  be 
mine. 

"The  jailer  waits,  and  these  poor  words  must  go.  Head  in 
them,  dearest  heart,  the  love  I  can  not  write.  I  dreamed  last 
night  that  your  father  was  at  home  and  in  safety  once  more,  that 
the  household  was  again  bright  and  peaceful,  and  that  you  were 
standing  by  the  elm  tree  at  the  gate,  happy  and  smiling,  as  was 
ever  your  wont.  I  think  the  dream  will  come  true;  I  pray  you 
to  let  your  share  in  it  be  true,  and  wherever  I  may  be,  I  think  I 
shall  know  it.  My  dear  one,  I  kiss  your  hands.  And  so  fare- 
well. 

"Yours  in  all  love  and  devotion, 

"  HUGO  WHABNCLIFFE. 

"Written  in  Newgate,  the  20th  November,  1683." 

I  do  not  well  know  what  happened  afterward,  only  the 
day  was  lived  through  somehow,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next,  till  a  sennight  had  gone  by.  My  mother  kept  me 
much  with  her,  and  taught  me  some  difficult  new  stitches 
in  embroidery,  and  drove  over  with  me  to  St.  Edmondsbury 
in  the  coach,  and  bought  some  fine  woolen  material,  which 
she  said  I  might  embroider  as  a  gown  for  the  little  daugh- 
ter of  the  Vicar  of  Osedean.  I  found  a  strange  comfort  in 
learning  this  embroidery,  which  was  odd  for  one  who  cared 
so  little  for  needlework  ;  but  I  seemed  to  have  no  heart 
for  books  or  music,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  relief  to  stitch  my 
grief  into  that  little  gown.  And  at  length  hope,  which 
should  have  been  killed  by  that  letter,  sprung  up  once 
more,  and  I  could  not  but  think  that  God  would  not  let 
Hugo  perish  in  that  horrible  place,  but  that  He  would  save 
him  and  bring  him  back  to  us.  My  mother  thought  there 
might  be  some  mention  of  him  perchance  in  the  newrs-let- 
ter,  and,  oh,  how  I  watched  for  its  advent !  There  was  un- 


278  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

luckily  a  snowstorm  that  made  it  two  days  later  than  usual, 
but  at  length  one  snowy  forenoon  there  rode  up  the  drive 
Sir  Henry  Dale's  groom — Sir  Henry  being  a  neighbor  of 
ours  some  six  miles  hence,  and  wLo  undertakes  to  pass  us 
on  the  news-letter,  which  we  in  turn  send  to  the  vicar  of 
Osedean.  I  was  sitting  in  the  window-seat  of  the  north 
parlor  when  I  saw  the  groom  ride  over  the  bridge,  but 
though  so  longing  to  have  the  letter,  I  could  not  stir  an 
inch  to  get  it — could  only  wait  what  seemed  an  eternity 
while  Koger  took  it  in  at  the  front  door,  and  paused  to 
fetch  the  man  a  tankard  of  ale  to  hearten  him  for  his 
return  journey.  Then  at  last — and  how  plainly  I  can  see 
it  all! — Eoger  came  into  the  parlor  bearing  the  letter  on 
the  salver,  and  handed  it  unconcernedly  to  my  mother, 
rubbing  the  salver  with  his  coat-sleeve  as  soon  as  she  had 
removed  the  damp  budget,  lest  the  silver,  which  is  the 
pride  of  his  dear  old  heart,  should  be  tarnished. 

Then  my  mother  broke  the  seal  of  the  budget  and  hastily 
read  through  the  letter.  I  saw  her  turn  very  pale  as  she 
read,  and  then,  unable  to  bear  the  waiting  any  longer,  I 
sprung  forward,  begging  her  to  tell  me  the  worst  at  once. 

"  It  is  as  we  feared,  my  little  daughter,"  said  my  mother, 
putting  her  arm  round  me,  and  trying  to  check  her  tears. 
"  But  in  this  be  comforted,  dear  child — your  lover  has  died 
right  nobly." 

I  think  my  heart  must  have  stopped  beating  ;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  left  off  living,  and  when  life  began  again  I  was 
years  older.  And  yet  there  we  were  still  in  the  north 
parlor — the  room  where  he  told  me  he  loved  me — and 
there  were  all  the  portraits  looking  down  at  us,  just  as 
they  had  looked  down  upon  Hugo  and  me  that  midsummer 
day  ;  but  he,  my  own  true  love,  was  dead ! 

I  wanted  to  know  more,  and  held  out  my  hand  for  the 
letter,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  my  mother  gave  it 
to  me,  and  pointed  to  the  paragraph.  I  remember  it  came 
after  a  far  longer  one  about  the  illness  of  the  King  of 
Portugal,  the  queen's  brother,  and  the  news-letter  dis- 
coursed much  as  to  whether  the  whole  town  would  be  put 
into  solemn  mourning,  as  well  as  the  court,  upon  his  death, 
which  appeared  imminent. 

Then  followed  these  lines  : 

"  Some  talk  hath  been  raised  about  the  sentence  passed  by  the 
lord  chief -justice  on  a  young  Templar,  who,  it  is  said,  had  much 
knowledge  of  the  Plot,  which,  however,  naught  would  induce 
him  to  reveal.  The  said  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  who  is  well 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  279 

known  in  the  town  on  account  of  his  fine  voice,  was  yesterday 
morning  whipped  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn  by  the  common 
hangman.  It  is  said  that  he  was  warned  by  the  authorities  that 
he  ran  much  risk,  seeing  that  he  was  weakened  by  illness  and 
long  imprisonment,  but,  though  offered  a  free  pardon  did  he  but 
reveal  what  he  knew  against  the  enemies  jf  the  Government,  he 
persisted  in  his  obstinate  silence,  and  to  the  general  regret  hath 
in  this  useless  way  sacrificed  a  life  which  promised  great  things. 
His  friends  were  in  waiting  at  Tyburn  with  a  hackney-coach,  to 
which  he  was  carried  in  a  dying  condition,  and,  though  a  leech 
was  at  hand  to  render  prompt  assistance,  Mr.  Wharncliffe  expired 
just  as  they  reached'Newgate. " 

After  that  came  an  account  of  the  trial  of  Mr.  Algernon 
Sidney,  but  I  could  not  read  it  then,  because  I  could  think 
of  nothing  but  that  awful  scene  which  the  news-letter  put 
so  blandly  in  a  few  cold  lines. 

Oh,  my  love!  my  love!  do  they  call  yours  an  "obstinate 
silence  ?"  Do  they  seek  to  shelter  themselves  by  casting 
blame  on  you  ?  As  though,  forsooth,  you  were  like  to  save 
yourself  ?  As  though  you  were  like  to  ruin  those  for  whom 
already  you  had  done  so  much! 

Just  a  few  more  words  to  this  journal,  which  began  so 
peacefully  and  ends  so  sorrowfully.  After  hearing  of 
Hugo's  death  I  had  a  long  illness.  I  am  well  again  now, 
and  my  hair  has  grown  once  more  and  my  color  come 
back,  yet  there  are  times  when  it  is  hard  to  try  to  keep  my 
love's  last  wish  and  request.  It  seems  to  me  like  one  of 
these  April  days,  when  you  have  been  glorying  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  all  at  once  the  sun  goes  behind  a  cloud  and 
leaves  you  shivering.  And  my  sun  will  not  come  out  again. 
Yet  is  the  sun  eternal,  and  shining  still  behind  the  black- 
ness that  separates  us,  and  my  true  love  is  at  rest,  and  has 
left  pain  and  grief  forever. 

The  bad  winter — the  worst  we  have  had  in  England  for 
many  generations — has  kept  us  much  to  ourselves  ;  and 
many  of  the  news-letters  have  never  been  forwarded,  so 
impassable  were  the  roads.  My  mother  wrote  to  Cousin 
Randolph  Wharncliffe,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  her  letter, 
therefore  we  have  had  no  further  account  of  Hugo's  last 
days.  But  we  have  learned  of  his  trial  from  John  Pettit,  at 
the  White  Horse,  who  had  to  appear  as  witness,  and  grum- 
bled sore  at  having  to  make  so  long  a  journey.  He  must 
have  left  London  just  before  that  21st  of  November  which 
must  ever  be  for  me  a  day  of  mourning.  But,  since  he 
had  not  seen  his  father  for  nigh  upon  fourteen  years,  he 
tarried  at  Bishop-Stortford  on  his  way  back,  and  so  did  not 


280  IN   THE   GOLDEN   DAYS. 

bring  us  his  news  until  after  the  fatal  news-letter  had 
reached  us.  I  remember  well  the  day  of  his  coming.  It 
was  just  before  I  was  taken  ill,  and  I  was  sitting  with  my 
spinning-wheel  in  the  gallery  when  Pettit  was  shown  into 
the  hall,  and  my  mother  made  him  sit  by  the  hearth  and 
tell  all  he  could  about  the  trial.  And  when  I  heard  how 
Hugo  would  ask  of  his  brother  no  question  at  all,  and  that 
he  had  made  his  own  defense  right  ably,  and  had  ever 
kept  a  steady  and  even  temper,  though  that  bad  judge 
treated  him  so  ill — then  a  glow  of  pride,  almost  of  happi- 
ness, filled  my  heart,  even  though  I  could  not  help  but 
weep  when  Pettit  told  how  wan  and  ill  he  seemed,  so 
changed  he  hardly  knew  him  for  the  same. 

But  all  that  is  over  now,  nor  will  I  dwell  on  that  last  ter- 
rible day,  which  yet  will  haunt  me  in  my  dreams.  I  will 
not  think  of  my  love's  pain  and  suffering,  but  of  bis  cour- 
age and  of  his  noble  constancy,  of  his  patience,  and  of  his 
forgiveness  of  the  one  who  had  wronged  him  most  of  all. 
Thinking  thus  will,  I  know,  help  me  to  keep  his  last  wish, 
and  to  bear  a  cheerful  heart  and  face.  It  shall  never  be 
said  that  he  darkened  my  life !  Nay,  rather — my  life,  God 
helping  me,  shall  be  a  better  and  truer  and  fuller  thing  for 
these  brief  months. 

There  is  like  to  be  much  on  hand  in  these  next  weeks,  for 
my  father  desires  us  to  join  him  at  Amsterdam,  seeing  that 
there  is  as  .yet  no  likelihood  of  his  being  able  to  return  to 
England.  He  can  no  longer  endure  to  have  us  away  from 
him,  and  so,  if  all  things  can  be  arranged,  we  are  to  leave 
Mondisfield  before  long,  a  kinsman  of  my  mother's  taking 
charge  of  the  property  until — if  ever — we  return.  I  think 
we  shall  return,  because  I  can  not  believe  that  Hugo's  life 
was  given  in  vain.  I  think  my  father  will  one  day  have  his 
own  again.  I  think  Hugo's  dream  will  come  true. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  281 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WOMAN'S   WORK. 

A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 

King  Henry  VI. 

THE  king  paced  to  and  fro  in  his  private  room  at  White- 
hall, the  room  in  which  he  had  interviewed  Hugo.  He  was 
evidently  ill  at  ease;  the  wrinkles  and  lines  on  his  fore- 
head, which  Hugo  had  noted  on  the  previous  day,  were  now 
far  deeper,  and  a  lameness  to  which  he  had  of  late  been 
subject  showed  more  than  ever  in  his  gait.  The  ticking  of 
his  many  clocks  and  pendules  annoyed  him.  He  ordered 
one  of  his  attendants  to  stop  them,  with  the  exception  of 
one  which  stood  upon  the  carved  mantelshelf.  Then,  fur- 
ther giving  orders  that  he  should  be  left  alone,  he  continued 
his  restless  walk,  glancing  now  at  the  clock,  now  at  the  pic- 
tures of  Hobbes  just  above  it,  now  at  the  "  Noli  me  tangere  " 
opposite  the  doer.  The  clock  struck  six,  and  the  king 
muttered  an  impatient  oath. 

"So  late!"  he  exclaimed,  under,  his  breath.  "I  doubt 
matters  have,  after  all,  gone  ill.  Damnation  take  Jeffreys, 
if  he  fails  in  getting  the  verdict !  " 

He  continued  his  restless  walk  for  some  quarter  of  an 
hour  making  every  now  and  then  ejaculations  of  im- 
patience, until  at  length  one  of  the  ushers  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"  The  lord  chief-justice  is  in  waiting,  and  craves  an  au- 
dience of  your  majesty,"  he  announced. 

The  king  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  at  once  admitted 
to  his  presence,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  choleric  looking 
Jeffreys,  with  his  large,  heavy- jawed,  sensual  face,  was 
ushered  into  the  king's  private  room. 

"I  bring  your  majesty  good  news,"  he  said,  modulating 
his  harsh  voice  to  a  fawning  and  courtier-like  tone.  "  The 
jury  have  brought  in  a  verdict  of  '  guilty/  I  and  my  learned 
friends,  having  consulted  together  how  we  might  best 
compass  the  death  of  Colonel  Sidney,  have  succeeded  in- 
different well,  my  liege." 

He  smiled  blandly,  but  it  was  a  smile  that  made  even 
the  king  wince. 

"  Did  the  jurors  take  long  in  agreeing  ?"  asked  the  king, 
sharply. 


282  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"Well,  my  liege,"  said  Jeffreys,  "I  own  that  they  were 
inclined  to  be  restive,  even  though  they  had  been  most  care- 
fully selected  for  the  purpose;"  he  chuckled  to  himself  in- 
voluntarily. Then,  remembering  that  he  was  in  the  king's 
presence,  went  on,  more  soberly.  "  Knowing  the  import- 
ance of  the  case,  I  made  bold,  my  liege,  to  follow  them  out 
of  court,  on  pretense  of  taking  a  cup  of  sack,  and  then  I 
took  the  opportunity  of  giving  them  more  particular  in- 
structions. After  that  they  were  but  a  half  hour  gone  and 
returned  with  the  verdict  against  Colonel  Sidney.  I  trust 
your  majesty  is  satisfied  ?" 

"  Quite  satisfied,"  said  the  king;  but  nevertheless  there 
were  signs  in  his  face  that  he  was  passing  through  some 
inward  struggle. 

" My  liege,"  said  Jeffreys,  "I  trust  you  will  pardon  me 
the  boast,  but  I  must  say  that  no  man  in  my  place  hath 
ever  rendered  unto  any  king  of  England  such  services  as 
I  have  rendered  your  majesty  this  day.  Not  only  have  I 
made  it  pass  for  law  that  any  man  may  be  tried  by  jurors 
who  are  not  freeholders,  but  I  have  made  it  pass  also  that 
one  witness  can  condemn  a  man,  provided  there  be  any 
concurrent  circumstances.  Your  majesty  is  well  rid  of  this 
traitor." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  said  the  king.  "  I  am  aware  that 
you  have  rendered  me  very  valuable  services  in  an  excep- 
tional case.  Wear  this  in  remembrance  of  the  day ;"  he 
drew  from  his  finger  a  costly  ring,  and  handed  it  to  the 
lord  chief-justice,  who  withdrew  with  many  expressions  of 
gratitude  and  loyalty. 

When  he  was  gone  the  king  flung  himself  back  in  a 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  weariness  and  disgust.  He  had  ob- 
tained his  wish,  but  he  had  obtained  it  in  a  way  which 
jarred  upon  his  better  nature  ;  and  then,  moreover,  it 
sickened  him  to  think  that  fiends  incarnate  like  Jeffreys 
would  fawn  upon  him  and  kiss  his  hand,  while  such  as 
Hugo  Wharncliffe  shrunk  back,  and  told  him  to  his  face 
that  he  was  no  better  than  a  murderer.  He  looked  at  the 
place  where  the  ring  had  lately  been,  as  though  he  half 
expected  to  see  there  the  blood-stain  of  which  Hugo  had 
spoken.  Then,  suddenly  remembering  that  by  this  time  the 
speaker's  fate  would  have  been  decided  he  hastily  sum- 
moned one  of  his  attendants. 

"  Have  you  heard  aught  of  Mr.  Wharncliffe  ?"  he  Qsked, 
not  trying  to  conceal  his  anxiety. 

It  was  well  known,  however,  that  the  young  tenor  had 


IN  HEE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  283 

always  been  a  favorite  with  the  king,  and  the  gentleman 
showed  no  surprise. 

"  I  heard  at  noon  to-day,  my  liege,  that  he  died  as  they 
bore  him  back  to  Newgate,"  he  replied.  "  But  it  was  no 
more  than  a  rumor,  and  possibly  ill-founded." 

"  I  wish  to  know  the  truth,"  said  Charles,  hastily.  "  Lefc 
inquiry  be  made  at  once,  and  bring  me  full  particulars." 

The  messenger  returned  more  speedily  tham  the  king 
expected. 

"  Tidings  have  this  moment  arrived,  my  liege,  that  the 
report  was  false.  Mr.  Wharncliffe  did  but  swoon  as  they 
bore  him  back  to  the  jail.  His  friend,  Sir  William  Denham, 
had  brought  to  his  assistance  a  noted  leech,  and  he  re- 
covered the  prisoner  after  a  while.  They  say  he  may  last 
out  the  night,  which  will  save  the  scandal  of  his  dying  on 
the  road." 

"  Then  he  is  after  all,  dying  ?"  said  the  king,  with  keen 
disappointment  in  his  voice.  "  As  well  have  died  at  once." 

"  Yes,  my  liege,  they  say  he  is  dying  past  dispute  ;  but 
'tis  surely  better  that  he  should  die  in  private,  as  it  were.  A 
death  on  the  road  would  provoke  comment  and  give 
scandal." 

"  Confound  scandal !"  said  the  king,  angrily.  "  What  is 
that  to  me,  when  I  would  have  the  man  alive  not 
dead?  A  fig  for  scandal!  There,  leave  me!  I  would  be 
alone." 

Hugo's  words  returned  to  him  very  bitterly  :  "  My 
God !  to  think  what  power  rests  with  one  man !" 

Power  did  in  truth  rest  with  him !  Would  that  it  did 
not!  He  hated  his  power  just  then,  for  he  was  keenly 
conscious  that  he  had  abused  it.  Gladly,  oh,  how  gladly, 
would  he  at  that  moment  have  changed  places  with  any  of 
his  subjects.  Once  more  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  white, 
haggard  face  was  raised  to  his  with  that  passionate  appeal 
for  mercy  toward  Sidney,  or,  rather — for  there  had  been 
pride  mingled  with  the  request — not  for  mercy,  but  merely 
common  justice.  And  what  had  he  done?  He  had  al- 
lowed the  noble  petitioner,  the  man  whom  he  knew  to  be 
innocent,  to  be  flogged  to  death,  while  the  man  who  had 
violated  the  law  and  desecrated  justice  he  had  sent  away 
with  a  special  token  of  his  royal  favor.  Should  he  even 
yet  save  Sidney's  life  ?  Should  he  make  even  now  an  ef- 
fort to  repair  the  horrible  injustice  which  he  had  counte- 
nanced and  rewarded  ?  A  strong  desire  for  right  took 
possession  of  him,  After  a  moment's  thought  he  did 


284  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  wisest  thing  he  could  have  done,  and  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  Lord  Halifax,  desiring  to  speak  with  him. 

Halifax  was  Sidney's  nephew  by  marriage,  and  had  for 
some  time  been  one  of  the  ruling  spirits  of  the  day.  He 
was  the  head  of  those  men  in  the  state  who  were  called 
"  Trimmers,"  but  he  himself  was  loath  to  be  looked  upon 
as  the  head  of  any  party,  even  of  that  which  avoided  all 
extremes;  for  he  disapproved  of  party  altogether,  and, 
while  disagreeing  very  much  with  his  uncle's  views,  disap- 
proved quite  as  much  of  the  king's  despotic  rule.  He  was 
a  keen,  clever,  broad-minded  man,  and  a  man  who  invari- 
ably sided  with  the  persecuted.  His  interview  with  the 
king  was  not  long,  but  it  was  fruitful  in  results. 

That  evening,  when  Hugo  lay  dying  in  Newgate,  and 
Algernon  Sidney  in  his  cell  in  the  Tower  sat  writing  the 
account  of  his  mockery  of  a  trial  to  the  king,  and  praying 
for  an  audience,  Charlea  himself  was  quietly  stealing  down 
his  back  staircase,  alone  and  unattended.  Outside  he  found 
in  waiting  a  hackney-coach,  and  within  it  Lord  Halifax,  who 
greeted  him  as  though  he  were  some  ordinary  friend,  and, 
bending  forward,  bade  the  coachman  drive  to  the  house  of 
one  Major  Long,  in  the  city.  The  king  spoke  little,  but  he 
looked  eager  and  anxious,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  out 
of  the  window  of  the  coach  to  see  what  progress  they  were 
making.  Arriving  at  length  at  Major  Long's  house,  they 
were  ushered  into  a  large  room  hung  with  tapestry  and  dimly 
lighted  by  wax  candles,  the  king  made  Halifax  go  first, 
and  kept  his  own  face  wrapped  in  a  muffler  until  the  serv- 
ant who  had  admitted  them  was  out  of  sight,  then  he 
tossed  it  impatiently  aside,  and  crossing  the  room,  which 
was  empty,  stood  before  the  fire,  the  look  of  impatient 
anxiety  in  his  face  deepening  every  moment. 

"  Is  this  the  way  for  a  son  to  treat  a  father  ?"  he 
exclaimed  at  last,  turning  angrily  to  Halifax.  "  I  did 
wrong  in  coming  here  ;  I  compromise  my  dignity.  Doth 
he  keep  me  wating  as  though  I  were  some  churl  ?" 

"  My  liege,  believe  me,  the  duke  is  entirely  repentant," 
said  fiord  Halifax.  "  But  doubtless  he  dreads  the  meet- 
ing, fearing  your  displeasure.  And  for  your  dignity,  my 
liege,  methinks  it  will  not  be  compromised  by  going  half- 
way to  meet  the  erring  one,  like  him  we  read  of  in  the 
Scriptures." 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  there  entered  a  young 
man,  negligently  dressed  in  a  suit  of  shabby  black  velvet. 
He  was  the  prodigal  in  question,  Charles's  favorite  son, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  285 

the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  who,  having  compromised  himself 
several  times  by  countenancing  insignificant  and  unsuc- 
cessful plots,  was  now  in  hiding  in  the  city,  having  con- 
trived to  escape  when  the  news  of  the  Eye-House  plot 
was  first  published.  His  face,  though  a  trifie  too  broad 
for  its  length,  was  strikingly  handsome,  the  dark  eyes  were 
large  and  liquid,  the  contour  of  the  cheeks  beautiful  as  a 
woman's.  But  although  his  appearance,  combined  with 
the  unmistakable  Stuart  charm  of  manner,  precisely  fitted 
him  for  the  role  of  popular  idol,  he  was  altogether  lacking 
in  the  manliness,  the  self-reliance,  and  the  dogged  per- 
severance which  must  characterize  a  popular  leader. 

Lord  Halifax  looked  uneasily  from  one  to  the  other. 
Upon  the  king's  brow  stern  displeasure  strove  hard  to  sub- 
due the  tenderer  feelings  which  were  at  once  excited  by 
the  sight  of  his  favorite,  while  Monmouth,  though  ex- 
tremely fond  of  his  father,  seemed  little  inclined  at  that 
moment  to  own  himself  in  the  wrong,  or  humbly  to  sue 
for  forgiveness.  The  peace-maker,  like  all  peace-mak- 
ers, had  an  anxious  time  of  it,  particularly  as  he  was  natu- 
rally unable  to  take  any  part  in  the  interview,  and  could 
only  view  it  from  a  discreet  distance.  He  knew  how  much 
depended  on  its  results,  and  waited  in  breathless  suspense, 
while  the  king,  with  great  severity,  yet  with  the  air  of  a 
father,  reproached  the  duke  for  consorting  with  men  who 
were  known  to  be  hostile  to  him,  and  for  taking  counsel 
with  those  who  must  in  the  end  prove  his  ruin.  Finally 
he  offered  him  a  free  pardon,  provided  that  he  would  in  all 
things  submit  without  reserve  to  the  royal  pleasure. 

Monmouth  seemed  to  waver  ;  an  impulse  seized  him  to 
fling  himself  at  his  father's  feet,  and  make  a  comfortable 
ending  of  his  exile  and  disgrace,  but  a  second  impulse  re- 
strained him ;  he  swayed  to  and  fro,  not  knowing  what 
course  to  take.  And  thus  in  uncertainty  the  interview 
ended,  Charles,  however,  showing  him  such  marked  affec- 
tion on  leaving,  that  Halifax  greatly  hoped  his  mission 
would,  after  all,  prove  successful. 

Making  haste  to  follow  up  his  advantage,  he  re- 
turned later  in  the  evening,  and  after  much  per- 
suasion induced  Monmouth  to  write  a  penitent  letter 
to  the  king.  One  by  one  he  forced  out  the  reluct- 
ant admissions — regret  for  all  his  past  offences,  a 
petition  that  he  might  not  be  put  upon  his  trial  or  sent 
to  prison,  a  request  for  advice  as  to  how  he  might  best  ap- 
pease the  wrath  of  the  Duke  of  York,  and,  finally  a  politic 


286  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

sentence  which  cost  Halifax  a{  least  half  an  hour's  argu- 
ment with  the  reluctant  scribe  :  "  I  throw  myself  at  the 
feet  of  your  majesty,  to  be  disposed  of  as  your  majesty 
shall  direct  for  the  remainder  of  my  life." 

Having  extorted  this  much,  Halifax  was  content,  and  went 
away  wearied,  yet  not  ill-satisfied  with  his  evening's  work. 
He  had  not  calculated,  however,  on  the  man  with  whom  he 
had  to  deal,  nor  did  he  in  the  least  understand  the  strange 
mixture  of  nobility  and  weakness,  impulsiveness  and  gene- 
rosity, love  of  peace  and  impatience  of  evil,  which  charac- 
terized the  youug  duke. 

As  he  passed  down  Newgate  Street  the  sight  of  a  pri- 
vate coach  at  the  main  entrance,  and  the  somewhat  un- 
usual spectacle  of  a  lady  being  escorted  into  the  jail,  made 
him  pause  for  an  instant.  He  looked  after  the  retreating 
forms,  then  he  glanced  at  the  livery  of  the  serving- rnaii 
and  at  the  device  upon  the  coach-door.  Notwithstanding 
the  uncertain  light  of  his  torch,  he  saw  enough  to  convince 
him  that  the  arms  emblazoned  on  the  panel  were  the  Den- 
ham  arms. 

"  They  go  to  bid  farewell  to  that  poor  victim  of  Jeff- 
reys'," he  said  to  himself,  and  with  that  he  sighed  and  fell 
into  a  painful  reverie. 

In  the  meantime  Sir  William  led  Mary  through  the  dis- 
mal passages  in  the  great  prison.  Their  admittance  at 
such  an  hour  was  a  great  privilege,  but  now  that  Hugo's 
sentence  had  been  carried  out,  now  that  the  work  for 
which  he  had  been  needed  had  perforce  been  carried 
through  without  his  aid,  the  prison  authorities  were  quite 
willing  to  grant  some  slight  indulgence  to  one  whom  they 
knew  to  have  b<;en  grossly  ill-treated.  All  was  over  now, 
the  victim  had  but  a  few  more  hours  to  live  ;  they  were 
willing  to  gratify  his  dying  wishes. 

"  He  has  been  asking  for  you  all  the  evening,"  said  Sir 
William.  "  Your  name  is  the  only  one  that  hath  passed 
his  lips.  And  perhaps  you,  with  your  woman's  skill,  may 
be  able  to  do  more  for  his  comfort,  poor  lad,  than  we 
rough  men-folk." 

This  had  passed  in  the  coach,  as  they  drove  from  Nor- 
folk Street  to  the  jail. 

"  I  am  glad  you  summoned  me,  sir,"  said  Mary,  grate- 
fully, and  there  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice  which  did  not 
escape  her  uncle's  notice. 

"  My  dear  niece,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  the  dark- 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  287 

ness,  "hath  aught  passed  betwixt  you  and  Hugo?      Have 
there  been  love-passages  betwixt  you,  my  dear  ?" 

"Never,  uncle,"  she  said,  resolutely;  "but  he  hath  ever 
counted  me  as  his  sister,  so  much  so  as  to  make  me  the 
confidante  of  his  troubles.  For  you  must  know  that  he 
loves  a  maiden  whom  I  must  not  name  to  you.  But,  me- 
thinks,  I  have  not  broken  trust  by  telling  you  thus 
much." 

"  I  would  he  had  loved  thee,"  said  Sir  William.  "  An 
thou  hadst  been  betrothed  to  him,  it  would  have  been  less 
like  to  cause  scandal  that  I  bring  thee  to  visit  him  thus. 
Art  prepared  for  that,  my  love  ?  Folks  credit  not  such 
friendships  as  thine  in  these  evil  days." 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  She  knew  that  her  uncle  spoke  the  truth  ;  she  knew, 
moreover,  that  Hugo  had  asked  for  her  just  because  she 
was  the  one  medium  of  communication  between  himsell 
and  Joyce.  Well,  at  least  she  could  be  to  him  that  medium. 
At  least,  she  could  bring  him  a  comfort  which  no  ono  else 
could  bring.  Angrily,  and  almost  contemptuously,  she 
strangled  the  thoughts  of  self  which  had  arisen,  and 
turned  instead  to  the  two  whom  she  had  schooled  herself 
always  to  think  of  together — Hugo  and  Joyce.  For  Joyce, 
whom  she  had  never  seen,  had  become  to  her  a  very  real 
person  ;  she  had  loved  her  when  she  had  only  guessed 
that  Hugo  loved  her  ;  she  had  sympathized  with  her 
through  the  long  months  of  that  sad  autumn,  and  had 
gladly  forwarded  Hugo's  letter  to  her  on  the  previous 
day.  "  She  had,  indeed,  learned  to  think  so  much  of  her 
that,  as  she  walked  along  the  dreary  prison  corridors,  it 
was  no  thought  of  herself  which  filled  her  heart  with  sor- 
row and  her  eyes  with  tears  ;  neither  was  it  any  thought 
of  Hugo.  It  was  the  thought  of  that  other,  who  would  so 
fain  have  been  in  her  position — of  the  unknown  Joyce,  far 
away  in  the  old  Suffolk  hall,  who  would  not  so  much  as 
know  that  her  lover  was  dying. 

They  had  mounted  some  tedious  nights  of  stairs,  and 
now  the  jailer  paused  before  a  narrow  door,  and  softly 
opened  it.  Mary  glanced  hastily  round.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  most  wretched  little  room,  almost  full  of  people,  but 
for  Newgate  it  was  princely  accommodation.  For  Scroop 
had  taken  care  that  the  prisoner  should  not  be  taken  back 
to  his  old  quarters  in  the  Common  Debtors'  Ward  ;  but 
determined  that  he  should  at  least  die  in  peace,  had  borne 
him  to  his  old  room,  for  which,  upon  his  entrance,  he  had 


288  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

paid  so  heavy  a  fee.  Bampfield  and  Griffith  stood  beside 
his  bed,  and,  in  carious  contrast  to  the  two  aged  ministers, 
Eupert  Denham,  in  his  usual  many-colored  raiment,  and 
the  richly  dressed  leech.  At  their  approach  Rupert  turned, 
and,  drawing  back  from  the  bedside,  made  room  for  Mary. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  caught  sight  of  Hugo  ;  for 
the  first  time  since  that  May  morning  when  he  had  come 
to  tell  them  about  his  visit  to  Penshurst,  and  to  claim  their 
pity  for  himself  on  account  of  that  visit  to  Longbridge 
Hall  which  he  had  so  greatly  dreaded.  She  remembered 
how  they  had  managed  to  cheer  him,  and  had  sent  him 
off  laughing.  His  face  -  young,  fresh,  and  healthful — rose 
before  her.  Was  it  possible  that  could  be  Hugo — this 
man  with  lines  of  care  on  his  brow,  with  lines  of  pain 
round  his  mouth,  with  a  face  so  white,  so  changed,  so 
deathly?  Ah!  what  had  they  been  doing  to  him  to 
change  him. thus? 

A  passion  of  love  and  pity  seemed  to  fill  her  whole  be- 
ing, and  to  crowd  out  every  other  thought.  She  was 
vaguely  conscious  all  the  time  that  old  Jeremiah  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  bed,  holding  his  young  master  in  his  arms,  but 
for  the  other  spectators  she  had  no  thought  as  she  knelt 
beside  him,  bent  down  close  to  him,  and  called  him  by 
name.  There  was  no  answer,  however,  and  she  heard  a 
whisper  from  the  leech  which  seemed  to  pierce  her  heart 
like  a  sword-thrust  : 

"  Past  speaking,  I  fear.      Sinking  fast. " 

"Hugo,  Hugo!"  she  cried,  in  an  agony,  "I  am  come  to 
you,  Hugo !  I  have  sent  your  letter  to  Joyce !" 

His  eyelids  seemed  to  quiver  a  little,  and  Mary  instinc- 
tively knew  what  spell  had  brought  him  back  to  life. 

"  I  have  sent  your  letter  to  Joyce,"  she  repeated. 

The  great  grey  eyes  were  open  now,  not  dreamily  peace- 
ful as  of  old,  but  bright  with  pain,  and  at  the  same  time 
eagerly  wistful. 

"Have  you  no  message  to  send  to  her?"  asked  Mary. 
"  The  poor  child,  you  would  not  leave  her  with  no  comfort 
— rito  last  word." 

He  seemed  to  make  a  great  effort,  in  obedience  to  her 
request. 

"  Tell  her,"  he  whispered,  faintly,  "  that  it  was  for  her, 
and  therefore  sweet." 

"  What  was  sweet  ?" 

"  To  die." 

The  words  were  more  breathed  than  spoken. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  289 

"Nay," said  Mary, "but  you  must  live  for  her,not  die,Hugo." 
She  glanced  quickly  at  the  leech,  who  placed  in  her  hands 
a  cup  containing  soire  strong  restorative,  and  Hugo,  who 
had  refused  or  had  been  unable  to  swallow  it  before,  now 
obeyed  mechanically,  while  Mary  talked  on  soothingly  as 
though  he  had  been  a  child.  "  You  will  take  it  for  her 
sake,  will  you  not,  Hugo  ?  You  would  not  grieve  her  by 
dying,  you  know;  you  will  struggle  hard  to  live,  just  for 
her.  She  is  so  young — so  young  to  be  left  to  such  sorrow. 
You  will  get  better,  and  then  you  will  write  to  her.  Trust 
me,  I  will  send  your  letters." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  pitifully,  but  with  more 
strength  in  his  voice.  "I  can  do  naught  for  her  here. 
'Tis  all  over.  Let  me  die." 

"  That  will  I  not,"  she  said,  resolutely.  "  You  can  not 
understand,  Hugo,  but  you  must  trust  me.  Some  more 
cordial.  There!  Now  you  must  sleep.  For  her  sake,  you 
know;  for  her  sake." 

She  kept  passing  her  fingers  rhythmically  through  his 
hair  from  front  to  back.  She  was  kneeling  upright  now, 
that  she  might  have  more  power  ;  she  did  not  understand 
why  it  was,  but  this  apparently  mechanical  action  seemed 
to  make  vast  demands  on  her  strength.  No  one  interfered 
with  her  ;  they  had  all  tried  their  best  with  the  patient, 
and  had  failed  ;  they  watched  with  a  sort  of  curiosity, 
glancing  now  at  the  pale,  resolute,  absorbed  face  of  the 
girl,  now  at  the  calm  face  on  the  pillow.  Presently  they 
saw,  to  their  surprise,  that  Hugo  had  fallen  asleep  like  a 
child.  His  nurse  rose  then  ;  she  looked  worn  out  and  ex- 
hausted, and  there  were  dark  shadows  beneath  her  eyes. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  Eupert's  arm. 

"  Take  me  home,  please,  cousin,  take  me  home,"  she 
said,  with,  again,  that  irrepressible  quiver  in  her  voice. 

And  Eupert  silently  obeyed. 

The  leech  looked  after  her  curiously  as  she  left  the 
room.  She  had  succeeded  where  he  had  failed.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  the  patient  owed  his  life  to  her. 


290  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   SEVENTH   OF   DECEMBEK. 

There  is  no  murder  which  history  has  recorded  of  Caesar 
Borgia  exceeds  in  violence  or  in  fraud  that  by  which  Charles 
took  away  the  life  of  the  gallant  and  patriotic  Sidney. 

LORD  JOHN  RUSSELL. 

IT  was  many  days  before  Hugo  was  capable  of  thinking 
clearly.  Life  was  a  kind  of  vague  pain.  His  shoulders 
were  so  cruelly  torn  and  lacerated  that  the  slightest  move- 
ment, even  the  action  of  breathing,  was  torture,  while  the 
exposure  to  the  raw  cold  of  the  November  day  had  brought 
back  his  old  enemy,  the  ague.  He  was  as  ill  as  he  well 
could  be,  but  alive,  and  likely  to  live.  Every  one  dinned 
this  continually  in  his  ears,  and  he  did  not  feel  grateful  to 
them,  though  doing  his  best  to  feel  glad  that  they  were 
glad. 

Often,  as  he  lay  there  in  his  weakness,  he  would  try  to 
call  up  in  vision  that  21st  of  November.  But  he  never 
could  recall  it  clearly,  for,  happily  for  human  beings,  phys- 
ical pain  can  not  be  very  \ividly  recalled,  but  is  dimmed 
and  blurred  by  the  passage  of  time.  He  had  only  the 
vaguest  recollections  of  great  suffering,  though  one  or  two 
trivial  incidents  were  indelibly  stamped  upon  his  brain.  He 
remembered  noticing  a  holly  tree  in  the  Oxford  Road, 
laden  with  red  berries;  he  remembered  the  pitying  face  of 
a  child;  he  remembered  how,  just  at  the  end  of  that  awful 
journey,  when  Tyburn  was  in  sight,  he  had  heard  a  robin 
singing  among  the  bushes  by  the  roadside.  And,  most 
vividly,  he  could  recall  the  comforting  presence  of  old  Jere- 
miah. Thinking  it  all  over  one  day,  he  began  to  wonder 
how  Jerry  had  learned  of  his  fate;  how  he  had  persuaded 
Randolph  to  allow  him  to  come  to  the  prison.  Had  Lis 
brother  some  lingering  love  for  him,  after  all  ?  Had  he, 
perhaps,  sent  the  old  serving-man,  though  he  would  not 
come  himself  ?  He  turned  round  with  almost  the  first  volun- 
tary question  he  had  put  since  his  illness.  The  old  soldier 
sat  beside  him,  as  usual;  indeed,  he  almost  lived  with  him, 
being  the  last  visitor  to  leave  Newgate  at  night  and  the  first 
to  arrive  in  the  morning. 

"  Did  my  brother  send  you  ?"  he  asked,  faintly. 

"No,  dear  lad,"  said  Jeremiah,  "he  sent  me  not ;  I  am 
no  longer  in  his  service," 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  291 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  Hugo  kept  silence  for 
some  time.  Then  the  consciousness  of  Jerry's  devotion 
began  to  comfort  him  again,  and,  thinking  of  the  old  ser- 
vant, he  turned  hastily  with  a  second  question. 

"  Why  did  you  quit  his  service  ?  Was  it  for  me,  Jerry, 
for  me  ?" 

"Ay,  dear  lad,"  said  Jeremiah,  quietly.  "What  else 
would  you  have  ?  I  did  but  stay  with  him  till  they  would 
let  me  come  to  thee  here.  I  will  call  no  one  master  save 
thee." 

"  A  sorry  master,"  said  Hugo,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
flitting  across  his  haggard  face.  "A  master  who  will 
end  his  days  in  jail,  and  who  has  no  power  of  giving  -wages. 
An  unprofitable  service,  Jerry.  I  am  a  bad  investment." 

Then,  seeing  the  doubtful,  bewildered  look  on  the  old 
man's  face,  he  changed  his  tone,  and,  taking  the  rough 
hand,  clasped  it  fast  in  both  of  his.  "God  bless  you  for  it, 
Jerry  ;  God  bless  you !" 

That  was  all  that  ever  passed  between  them  on  the  sub- 
ject, neither  of  them  being  men  of  many  words. 

Mary  and  Sir  William  had  visited  him  daily,  but  it  was 
not  until  the  afternoon  when  he  had  had  the  above  con- 
versation with  Jeremiah  that  he  took  very  much  note  of 
their  presence  or  attempted  to  talk  to  them.  He  was  now 
much  more  himself,  and  welcomed  them  with  some  show 
of  eagerness.  Then,  when  Sir  William  was  engaged  in 
conversation  with  Bampfield  he,  for  the  first  time,  asked 
Mary  about  his  other  letter. 

"You  have  said  naught  of  Colonel  Sidney,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  You  sent  him  my  letter  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "  Ducasse  gave  it  to  him  that  very  day." 
"  Do  not  fear  to  tell  me  the  worst,"  said  Hugo,  gently. 
"  The  trial  went  against  him,  did  it  not?" 
She  signed  an  assent. 

"The  king  told  me  his  fate  was  sealed,"  said  Hugo. 
"  When  is  it  to— to — "  he  broke  off,  unable  to  frame  the 
words. 

"  That  is  not  yet  certain  ;  no  warrant  has  been  issued  as 
yet  ;  and,  Hugo,  I  hardly  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  it, 
but  we  heard  it  rumored  that  the  king  seemed  to  waver 
after   receiving   Colonel   Sidney's    account   of    the   trial. 
They  say,  too,  that  the  pardon  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth 
may  have  some  bearing  upon  Colonel  Sidney's  case." 
"  What !  the  duke  pardoned  ?"  exclaimed  Hugo. 
"Ay,  he  was  at  Whitehall  not  many  days  since,"  said 


292  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Mary.  "  And  they  say  lie  hath  made  full  confession  and 
hath  told  the  king  all  that  he  knew  of  the  conspiracy.  He 
saw  the  king  and  the  Duke  of  York,  and  hath  received  his 
pardon  under  the  great  seal.  Moreover,  we  heard  it  from 
one  high  in  authority,  whom,  however,  I  must  not  name, 
that  the  king  had  given  him  six  thousand  pounds,  and  had 
taken  him  once  more  into  favor." 

"  What  does  that  bode  ?"  said  Hugo,  musingly.  "  I 
should  not  have  thought  the  duke  would  have  turned 
informer. " 

"  That  is  what  no  one  will  believe,"  replied  Mary  ;  "  and 
they  say  that  lie  goes  about  everywhere  dropping  hints 
that  he  said  naught  to  the  king  which  would  criminate 
any  of  those  brought  up  for  trial.  And  this  having  reached 
the  king's  ears,  he  is  very  angry  with  him  again,  and  they 
say  he  insists  that  the  duke  shall  write  and  sign  a  state- 
ment confirming  all  that  passed  in  the  interview." 

"  You  have  brought  me  hope,"  said  Hugo,  gratefully  ; 
"  you  have  made  me  better  already." 

"  There  is  one  thing  more  I  must  tell  you,"  said  Mary, 
with  a  happy  light  in  her  eyes.  "That  same  one  whom  I 
mentioned  to  you  told  us  also  that  he  believed  your  inter- 
view with  the  king  had  much  to  do  with  his  hesitation 
about  Colonel  Sidney,  that  and  your — your  illness." 

They  were  both  of  them  young  and  hopeful  ;  they  thought 
tliat  immediately  the  good  would  be  brought  out  of  the 
evil  ;  they  thought  they  should  see  of  the  travail  of  their 
souls,  and  be  satisfied  here  and  now.  But  the  very  next 
day  there  came  a  sharp  reverse.  Whigs  and  Tories  alike 
were  startled  and  shocked  when  the  warrant  was  issued, 
"  contrary  to  all  men's  expectations,"  for  the  execution  of 
Algernon  Sidney.  They  hesitated  at  first  to  tell  the  ill 
news  to  Hugo,  but  at  length  Sir  William  bade  his  niece 
break  the  tidings  to  him  as  gently  as  might  be.  It  was 
hard  work,  and  yet  she  was  glad  that  they  had  chosen  her 
for  the  task. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  winter's  morning,  and  she  had 
brought  with  her  to  the  prison  all  manner  of  wraps  for  the 
invalid,  from  Lady  Denham  ;  she  talked  as  long  as  she 
could  about  trivial  matters,  deferring  the  evil  day.  But 
such  little  expedients  are  of  no  use  between  friends. 
Hugo  instantly  perceived  how  matters  were. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me  ?"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  We  hoped  too  soon,  Hugo,"  she  replied,  in  a  choked 
voice. 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  293 

"  The  warrant  is  issued  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  day?" 

"  The  7th  day  of  December." 

"  Friday,"  said  Hugo,  musingly.  * '  A  fit  day  for  one  who 
dies  for  the  people."  Then  shuddering,  and  with  a  look  of 
horror  in  his  eyes,  "  It  will  not  be  the  worst  way,  will  it  ?'' 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied,  quickly.  "  They  will  spare  him 
that.  He  will  be  beheaded." 

"Oh,  God,"  he  cried,  "  if  I  could  but  be  with  him  !  'Tis 
hard,  'tis  hard,  that  the  wretchedest  beggar  in  London 
may  look  his  last  on  him  while  I  lie  here  in  jail!" 

He  turned  faint,  and  Mary  had  as  much  as  she  could  do 
to  recover  him,  Bampfield  assisting  her,  and  speaking- 
kindly  words,  which  comforted  her  afterward  more  than  at 
the  time.  Presently,  when  Hugo  was  himself  again,  he 
turned  to  her  with  another  question. 

"What  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth?" 

"We  have  heard  from  the  same  source  that  he  did 
write  the  letter  which  the  king  demanded,  but  wrote  it 
evasively;  that  the  king  demanded  a  plain  and  unmistak- 
able statement,  and  that,  after  great  hesitation,  he  at 
length  wrote  and  signed  it,  but  had  no  sooner  done  so 
than  he  hurried  to  Whitehall,  overwhelmed  with  shame 
and  horror  at  what  he  had  done,  and  pleaded  passionately 
with  the  king  to  restore  him  the  paper.  The  king,  after 
long  expostulation,  induced  him  to  sleep  upon  the  matter, 
but  the  next  morning  the  duke  returned  with  his  request, 
and  the  king  restored  the  paper  to  him,  but  the  lord 
chamberlain  sent  him  word  that  he  was  never  again  to 
come  into  the  royal  presence.  They  say,  the  dnke  being 
much  grieved  at,  his  father's  severity,  his  wife  persuaded 
him  again  to  sign  a  paper  with  the  information  which  the 
king  desired,  but  his  majesty  at  once  refused  to  entertain 
the  proposal,  and  it  is  thought  that  he  will  persevere  in 
his  intention  of  never  again  seeing  the  duke." 

"  And  it  was  after  this  that  the  warrant  was  issued  ?" 
asked  Hugo. 

"Yes;  the  king,  being  wroth  at  hearing  how  Monmouth's 
friends  were  everywhere  saving  how  he  had  not  criminated 
any  one  by  his  statement,  said  that,  did  he  pardon  Colonel 
Sidney,  he  should  be  countenancing  these   said  reports 
Ducasse  was  at  our  house  this  morning. " 

"Ah!" — Hugo's  face  lighted  up — "what  said  he  of  his 
master?" 


294  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  That  lie  was  busy  writing  a  short  account  of  his  life, 
and  that  lie  asked  often  after  you,  and  would  write  to  you; 
that  he  rejoiced  to  hear  that  you  were  likely  to  live." 

"  And  how  took  he  the  ill  news?" 

"  Ducasse  was  with  him  when  the  sheriffs  arrived  at  the 
Tower.  He  said  his  master  was  surprised,  having  thought, 
like  every  one  else,  that  it  was  impossible  the  king  would 
allow  such  a  mockery  of  a  trial  to  pass.  But  when  they 
handed  him  the  paper  he  read  it  through  with  an  unmoved 
face,  for  all  the  world  as  though  it  had  been  a  playbill, 
with  details  of  some  mock  tragedy.  And  when  he  had 
ended  he  turned  to  the  sheriffs,  and  said  to  them  that  he 
would  not  say  one  word  to  them  on  his  own  behalf,  seeing 
that  he  was  ready  to  die  and  that  the  world  was  naught  to 
him;  but  very  sternly  he  called  to  their  remembrance  how 
grievously  they  had  sinned  against  the  people  of  this  land, 
in  packing  a  jury,  and  in  causing  their  office  to  be  evil 
spoken  of  by  acting  thus  with  injustice  and  servility. 

"  That  was  like  him,"  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice.  "  It 
was  ever  the  '  people  '  with  him — '  self/  never." 

"  And  Ducasse  says,"  continued  Mary,  "  that  the  sheriffs 
looked  blank  enough,  as  though  they  were  pricked  at  heart, 
and  one  of  them  fairly  burst  into  tears." 

Shortly  after  Sir  William  came  to  fetch  his  niece  home, 
and  seeing  that  Hugo  had  talked  already  more  than  he 
ought  to  have  done,  and  was  like  to  talk  so  long  as  she  re- 
mained, she  thought  it  best  to  leave  the  jail  as  soon  as 
might  be. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  as  they  drove  back  to  Norfolk  Street, 
"  shall  you  go  to  be  present  at  Colonel  Sidney's  death  ?" 

"  No,  my  love,"  said  Sir  William,  with  a  shudder.  "  I 
am  over  old  for  such  horrors.  My  God !  How  comes  his 
majesty  to  permit  such  an  injustice!".  And  Sir  William, 
staunch  Tory  as  he  was,  broke  into  a  passionate  denuncia- 
tion of  the  wrong  that  had  been  wrought. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  Mary  hastily  sought  her  cousin. 

"  Rupert,"  she  said,  "  are  you  going  to  Tower  Hill  next 
Friday?" 

"  Not  I,"  he  replied,  with  an  oath  and  an  irrepressible 
shudder.  "  I  have  no  taste  for  death-scenes,  least  of  all 
for  public  ones." 

She  said  no  more,  but  shut  herself  into  the  parlor  and 
tried  to  think  out  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  idea  that  had 
come  to  her. 

Hugo  longed  to  be  present  at  the  last  with  his  fiiend 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  295 

and  teacher,  but  lay  helpless  in  jail.  He  would  wish  to 
hear  from  a  faithful  eye-witness  all  that  passed.  Yet  more 
he  ought  to  be  told  carefully,  lovingly,  not  coarsely  and 
brutally,  by  some  prison  official  or  some  chance  visitor. 
Her  uncle  would  not  go,  her  cousin  would  not  go — should 
she —  ah  !  horrible  idea ! — could  she  possibly  go  herself  ? 
The  mere  thought  sickened  her.  And  yet,  was  she  to  think 
of  her  own  feelings  where  Hugo  was  concerned  ?  Was  she 
to  be  conquered  by  the  mere  horror  of  a  frightful  sight,  or 
dismayed  by  the  thought  that  people  might  blame  her, 
mistaking  her  motive  ?  She  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of 
consulting  other  people,  being  of  an  independent  nature, 
and  having  always  been  obliged  to  think  for  herself,  since 
Lady  Denham  was  a  semi-invalid,  Sir  "William  absorbed  in 
scientific  matters,  and  Rupert  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  give  help  or  advice  in  any  difficulty.  So,  after  much  in- 
ward debate,  she  rang  the  bell  and  summoned  old  Thomas, 
the  butler. 

"  Thomas,"  she  said,  bidding  him  close  the  door  behind 
him,  "  did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  a  kinswoman  kept  a 
house  on  Tower  Hill  ?" 

"  Ay,  Mistress  Mary.  'Tis  my  cousin  by  marriage,  and 
a  very  worthy  dame,  too;  her  husband  is  a  vintner  in  a 
small  way." 

"  Ask  her,  then,  if  "you  may  bring  me  to  her  house  on 
Friday  morning,"  said  Mary.  "Tell  her  that  I  have 
special  reasons  for  desiring  to  see  Mr.  Sidney  once  more 
as  he  passes  to  his  death." 

The  old  servant  seemed  about  to  make  some  remon- 
strance, but  on  second  thought  he  checked,  himself,  and 
without  any  comment,  promised  to  do  as  his  young  mis- 
tress wished.  The  deed  thus  done,  the  step  irrevocably 
taken,  poor  Mary  underwent  a  sharp  reaction,  and  awaited 
the  day  with  dread  and  shrinking  unspeakable. 

It  came  at  length— a  fresh,  bright  December  day.  Very 
early — almost  as  soon  as  it  was  light — Mary  got  into  a 
sedan-chair,  and,  with  Thomas  in  attendance,  they  made 
their  way  through  the  streets,  having  agreed  that  it  was 
best  to  reach  their  destination  before  the  crowd  of  specta- 
tors should  have  assembled;  indeed,  when  they  reached 
Grower  Hill  there  was  scarcely  a  soul  about,  only  a  few 
street  boys  gaping  up  with  awestruck  faces  at  the  scaffold, 
which  some  workmen  were  draping  with  black  cloth. 
Thomas  led  the  way  into  a  respectable-looking  house, 
where  a  bustling  housewife,  with  a  round,  rosy  face,  came 


296  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

out  to  receive  them,  courtesying  low,  and  smiling  with  a 
bland  hospitality  which  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the 
day. 

"  'Tis  the  best  house  on  all  Tower  Hill  for  the  sight," 
she  said,  cheerfully,  smoothing  her  apron  as  she  spoke. 
"  Many's  the  party  that  come  to  me  on  execution  days,  and 
many  is  the  golden  guinea  that  my  windows  have  gained 
me.  Not  but  what  I'm  proud  to  do  it  for  Sir  William 
Denham's  family  just  out  of  respect,  and  taking  no  account 
of  payment." 

"  No,  that  must  not  be,"  said  Mary,  pressing  a  gold 
coin  into  the  good  woman's  hand.  "  But  yet,  for  the  love 
you  bear  my  uncle's  family,  I  will  ask  you  as  a  favor,  let 
no  one  else  come  into  the  room  whence  I  am  to  look  forth." 

The  buxom  housewife  smiled  and  promised,  conducting 
the  visitor,  as  she  spoke,  to  a  little  disused  room  full  of 
apples  stored  on  long  wooden  shelves  round  the  walls. 

"  This  is  a  poor  place,  madame,  but  I  assure  you  the  best 
view  of  the  scaffold.  You'll  hear  every  wrord  that  passes 
from  here !"  and  with  that  the  worthy  dame  threw  open 
the  window,  and  was  proceeding  to  tell  Mary  of  all  the 
executions  she  had  witnessed  from  this  particular  spot, 
when  a  knock  below  made  her  hastily  withdraw. 

"  More  spectators,  I  warrant,"  she  remarked,  with  satis- 
faction. "  But  I  will  mind  and  not  let  them  disturb  you, 
mistress." 

Mary  thanked  her,  but  took  the  precaution  of  bolting 
the  door  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing.  Then  she  knelt 
down  and  tried  to  prepare  for  the  morning  that  awaited 
her.  After  a  while,  when  she  had  gained  the  mastery  of 
herself  and  was  quite  calm  and  composed  she  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  forth.  By  this  time  an  immense  crowd 
had  gathered  in  the  open  space  around  the  scaffold;  she 
could  hear  the  sound  of  many  voices  rising  up;  a  meaning- 
less and  ceaseless  roar  which  seemed  to  throb  against  her 
ears  with  every  now  and  then  more  emphatic  pulsations. 

(gradually  the  throng  grew  thicker  and  denser,  and 
every  window,  and  even  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of 
the  houses  were  crammed  with  eager  onlookers.  And 
now  the  church  clocks  struck  ten,  and  Mary  observed 
a  sort  of  a  movement  in  the  huge,  swaying  mass  of 
heads  below  ;  she  glanced  at  the  scaffold,  and  saw  that 
the  executioner  has  just  arrived,  and  stood  confronting  the 
people  with  his  black  half-mask,  and  the  ax  grasped  in  his 
right  hand.  She  heard  some  one  below  say  the  sheriffs 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  297 

had  gone  to  the  Tower,  and  that " it "  would  be  soo::. 
Then  came  a  waiting  which,  though  in  reality  short, 
seemed  like  an  eternity.  Mary  knelt  at  the  window,  her 
elbows  on  the  sill,  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  most  distant  point  of  the  narrow  gangway,  the 
point  where  she  knew  that  ere  long  Sidney  would  appear. 
At  length  came  a  second  movement  of  the  heads  below,  a 
vibration  seemed  to  thrill  through  the  dense  crowd,  the 
word  was  passed  from  one  to  another  that  the  prisoner  was 
coming.  Mary's  breath  came  fast  and  her  heart  throbbed 
painfully  as  the  familiar  figure  turned  the  corner,  and 
advanced  along  the  narrow  pathway  between  the  people. 

He  had  walked  on  foot  from  the  Tower,  the  sheriffs  on 
either  side  of  him,  while  close  to  him  was  his  faithful  valet 
Ducasse,  and  an  old  family  servant  of  whom  he  was  fond. 
They  were  the  sole  friends  for  whose  presence  he  had  peti- 
tioned, nor  would  he  have  priest  or  minister  to  attend  him 
in  his  last  moments.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  grave  sheriffs 
and  the  sorrowing  servants,  Mary  could  have  fancied  that 
he  was  but  taking  an  ordinary  walk,  so  tranquil  and  un- 
moved was  his  face,  so  natural  his  mien.  Many  a  time  she 
had  seen  him  enter  her  uncle's  house  with  a  look  of  care, 
and  with  the  gait  of  an  elderly  man,  to-day  he  looked  young 
and  alert,  full  of  life  and  yet  indifferent  to  death,  the  centre 
and  chief  attraction  of  that  huge  assembly,  but  apparently 
the  least  concerned  individual  in  the  throng. 

Never  once  did  he  speak  to  his  companions  ;  he  had 
ceased  to  think  of  individuals  at  all,  he  had  ceased  even  to 
think  of  himself,  he  thought  of  God — of  God  and  the  peo- 
ple. That  vast  crowd  which  had  gathered  together  to  gaze 
at  his  last  sufferings  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  his  peace. 
The  publicity  could  no  longer  gall  him,  since  the  thought 
of  his  own  individuality  had  been  lost  and  merged  in 
something  higher.  Steadily,  briskly,  he  walked  on  until 
lie  reached  the  scaffold — the  dreary  looking  scaffold,  with 
its  mournful  hangings,  its  floor  and  staircase  covered  with 
black.  As  his  foot  touched  the  first  step  he  paused,  his 
other  foot  resting  for  the  last  time  on  the  fair,  beautiful 
earth  which  he  was  leaving  forever.  The  thought  of  self 
returned,  he  glanced  up  the  narrow  black  stairs,  right  up 
to  the  clear  blue  December  sky. 

The  People — and  Death  !  Ay,  he,  Algernon  Sidney — he, 
spite  of  his  sins  and  shortcomings  and  manifold  failures, 
was  to  die  for  them — for  them  and  their  liberties.  It  was 
well.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  in  silent  thanksgiving. 


298  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Then,  with  his  usual  calm  dignity,  his  usual  slightly  aus- 
tere manner,  he  quietly  walked  up  the  stairway,  glanced 
with  stoical  indifference  at  the  black  coffin,  and,  making 
his  way  to  the  block,  stood  silently  watching  the  people 
below. 

There  was  a  breathless  silence — a  silence  which  might 
be  felt.  Was  he  about  to  address  the  assembly  ?  No,  that 
could  hardly  be,  for  he  raised  his  voice  scarcely  above 
its  ordinary  tone.  So  clear  and  distinct  were  his  refined 
accents,  however,  that  every  word  reached  Mary  Denham. 

"I  have  made  my  peace  with  God,  and  have  nothing  to 
say  to  men  ;  but  here  is  a  paper  of  what  I  have  to  say." 

With  this  he  handed  a  packet  to  the  sheriff  who  asked 
whether  he  would  not  read  it  to  the  crowd  or  have  it  read. 
But  Sidney,  weakened  by  long  imprisonment,  and  feeling 
the  keen  December  air  after  such  close  confinement,  de- 
clined. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  But  if  you  will  not  take  it,  I  will 
tear  it." 

"  Is  the  paper  written  in  your  handwriting  ?  "  asked  the 
sheriff. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sidney. 

After  that  the  sheriff  consented  to  take  the  paper,  and 
Sidney,  turning  to  Ducasse,  placed  in  his  hand  another 
paper,  and  bade  him  farewell,  kindly,  but  with  no  effusion. 
The  valet  had  not  been  so  long  in  the  republican's  service 
without  learning  to  control  his  emotional  French  nature. 
Lovingly  but  silently  he  received  his  master's  hat,  coat,  and 
doublet,  nor  allowed  the  tears  to  start  to  his  eyes  until  Sid- 
ney had  turned  from  him  to  the  executioner. 

"  I  am  ready  to  die,  I  will  give  you  no  further  trouble," 
he  said,  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  proffered  the  execu- 
tioner three  guineas,  it  being  the  custom  in  those  days  that 
people  should  pay  for  the  trouble  they  gave  in  having  their 
heads  cut  off.  The  executioner  chinked  the  gold  in  his 
\and  with  a  discontented  air. 

"I  looked  for  more  than  this  from  your  honor;  an  earl'^ 
sonvmight  have  come  down  with  more  than  a  paltry  three 
guineas." 

A  slightly  sarcastic  expression  stole  over  Sidney's  face, 
but  he  turned  to  his  valet. 

"  Joseph,  my  friend,  give  the  fellow  another  guinea  or 
two,"  he  said. 

Then,  while  Ducasse  produced  the  money  and  handed  it 
to  the  headsman,  Sidney  knelt  down  and  said  a  prayer  "as 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  299 

short  as  a  grace."  When  lie  uncovered  bis  face  Mary  no- 
ticed that  it  bore  a  calm,  happy  smile,  and,  without  one 
other  word,  he  laid  his  head  on  the  block  and  awaited  the 
end. 

The  executioner  drew  near  with  raised  ax. 
"  Are  you  ready,  sir?"  he  cried.    "  Shall  you  rise  again  ?" 
And  the  serene  smile  grew  brighter,  as,  with  firm  voice, 
Sidney  replied,  "Not  till  the  general  resurrection.     Strike 
on!"  ' 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"LOVE  is  LORD  OF  ALL." 

Passion  grounded  upon  confession  of  excellence  outlives  hope. 
.  .  .  For  that  same  love  for  which  God  created  and  beautified  the 
world  is  the  only  means  for  us  to  return  unto  Him  who  is  the 
fountain  of  our  being;  and  through  the  imperfections  of  our 
natures  being  not  able  to  see  or  comprehend  His  greatness  and 
goodness,  otherwise  than  by  his  works,  must  make  us  from  vis- 
ible things  to  raise  our  thoughts  up  to  him. — ALGERNON  SIDNEY. 

GRIFFITH  had  been  moved  to  write  a  sermon  that  morn- 
ing, and  sat  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  with  his  ink- 
horn  and  papers,  Bampfield  read  to  himself,  breaking  off 
occasionally  to  stir  the  soup  which  was  simmering  over 
the  fire,  and  Hugo,  after  a  sleepless  night,  lay  idly  watch- 
ing the  two  old  men,  though  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 
Ah,  had  he  but  been  free  he  might  have  been  with  his 
friend  to  the  last,  might  have  walked  with  him  from  his 
prison,  might  have  stood  beside  him  on  the  scaffold.  He 
could  never  again  serve  him — nay,  he  had  scarcely  served 
him  at  all,  for  those  weary  months  in  the  prison  had  been 
wasted  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  and  now  hope  was  over, 
injustice  had  triumphed,  and  his  master  was  to  be  put  to 
death — to  be  judicially  murdered ! 

He  turned  his  face  from  the  light  in  silent  anguish,  in 
which  he  was,  nevertheless,  conscious  of  a  certain  relief 
in  the  quiet  of  the  cell,  a  certain  gratitude  to  his  two  com- 
panions for  leaving  him  alone.  But  all  at  once  the  quiet 
was  broken  and  his  sorrow  rudely  invaded.  An  ill-con- 
dition prisoner  named  Matthew,  whose  duty  it  was  to  go 
round  the  prison  distributing  the  daily  dole  of  bread  which 
was  allowed  to  certain  classes  of  prisoners,  flung  open  the 
door,  and,  having  set  down  his  loaf  on  the  wooden  bench 
which  served  for  table,  crossed  over  to  Hugo's  bed. 


300  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  horrible  grin,  as  he  rubbed 
his  grimy  hands,  "  Mr.  Sidney's  d d  head  is  off." 

Bampfield,  hastily  interposing,  tried  in  vain  to  check 
the  man,  but  he  went  on  unheeding. 

"  Off  at  one  blow,  they  say,  except  that  the  headsman 
had  to  finish  off  just  a  trifle  of  skin  with  his  knife." 

At  this,  however,  even  Griffith  was  roused,  and,  stepping 
quickly  forward,  he  took  the  fellow  by  the  shoulders  and 
turned  him  out  of  the  cell. 

"  Take  thy  vain  prating  hence  !"  he  said,  with  righteous 
indignation  ;  then,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  doctor,  turned 
to  see  how  it  fared  with  his  patient. 

He  had  long  ago  ceased  to  judge  Hugo  harshly;  spite  of 
himself,  he  had  been  won,  and  was  now  fain  to  admit  that 
even  a  man  who  was  familiar  with  Whitehall,  a  man  who  wore 
lace  cravats  and  gay  colors,  might  after  all,  be  not  wholly 
a  reprobate.  But  neither  Dr.  Griffith,  with  his  good  in- 
tentions, nor  Francis  Bampfield,  with  his  saintly  love  and 
sympathy,  could  do  much  for  their  fellow-prisoner  now. 
The  horrible  words  had  all  too  vividly  called  up  before 
him  tiie  ghastly  spectacle,  had  roused  all  those  terrible 
thoughts  of  death  which  are  most  repugnant  to  human 
nature.  Death  had  never  before  touched  him  nearly  ;  he 
had  almost  died  himself,  it  is  true,  but  had  been  so  worn 
out  with  pain  of  mind  and  body  that  he  had  hailed  death 
as  a  deliverer.  He  could  not  do  this  in  the  case  of  his  friend. 
Death  was  to  him  only  the  destroyer,  the  cruel,  merci- 
less, irresistible  destroyer.  The  brutal  words  had  quenched 
all  higher  thoughts,  had  brought  before  him  only  the  mate- 
rial view,  with  its  blood  and  agony  and  sickening  details. 
He  could  only  think  of  the  eyes  that  had  smiled  on  him — 
thus  ;  the  lips  that  had  kissed  him — thus  ;  the  hand  that 
had  clasped  his — thus.  He  broke  into  passionate  weeping, 
into  an  agony  of  sobbing,  most  dangerous  in  his  present 
state,  as  both  the  watchers  knew,  and  yet  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other  could  say  one  word  to  check  him. 

At  length,  to  their  inexpressible  relief,  the  door  was  un- 
locked, and  Scroop  admitted  Sir  William  Denham  and 
Mary.  Instinctively  the  three  men  drew  together,  talking 
in  low  voices  of  the  event  of  the  day,  and  leaving  to  the 
woman  the  difficult — the  almost  impossible — task  which 
had  baffled  them. 

She  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  making  him  aware  of  her 
presence,  but  without  speaking.  Then  after  a  while,  when 
she  thought  that,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  his  sobs  were 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  301 

less  violent,  and  that  lie  might  listen  to  her  voice,  she  said, 
quietly  and  distinctly, 

"  It  was  not  like  death,  Hugo,  it  was  like  a  triumph." 

With  a  strong  effort  he  controlled  himself,  and,  still 
with  averted  face,  asked, 

"Who  told  you  of  it?" 

"  I  was  there,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "  there  all  the 
time." 

"  You  were  there  !  "  he  exclaimed  turning  toward  her, 
and,  in  his  astonishment,  forgetting  for  the  moment  all 
else. 

Was  he  shocked  ?  Mary  wondered.  Did  he  think  she 
had  done  an  unwomanly  thing  ?  Did  he  shrink  from  a  girl 
who  could  voluntarily  go  to  see  an  execution  ?  A  faint  color 
came  into  her  face,  her  eyes  filled.  She  said,  falteringly, 
and  as  if  in  excuse,  words  which  she  had  never  meant  to 
say  : 

"  It  was  for  you  I  went." 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
But  he  did  not  thank  her — she  was  glad  that  he  did  not — 
in  words. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  silence — "  tell  me  all." 

"  There  can  have  been  very  little  pain,"  she  said,  allowing 
Hugo  still  to  hold  her  hand  in  his.  "  It  was  all  over  so 
quickly,  and  even  the  smile  on  his  face  was  there  afterward. 
There  was  such  a  hush  all  through  the  crowd,  and  not  one 
soul  stirred;  all  the  folk  standing  by  weeping  quietly, 
while  Ducasse  and  the  other  servant  laid  his  body  rever- 
ently in  the  coffin,  and  then  bore  it  down  to  a  coach  which 
was  in  waiting  to  take  it  to  Penshurst.  He  wished  much 
to  be  buried  at  Penshurst,  they  say;  for  he  loved  the  place 
only  the  more  that  he  had  been  so  long  exiled  from  it. 
But,  Hugo,  I  cannot  think  of  him  lying  there  dead.  I 
think  of  him  as  he  looked  just  as  he  ascended  the  scaf- 
fold. When  he  first  came  in  sight,  looking  so  indifferent, 
so  composed,  I  thought  how  like  he  must  be  to  his  favor- 
ite hero,  Marcus  Brutus.  But  just  as  he  mounted  the 
stairs  he  paused  and  looked  up  with  a  look  on  his  face 
that  I  can  never  describe  to  you- — a  look  I  never  saw  on 
mortal  face  before,  and  it  made  me  understand  the  words 
we  sing  in  church: 

"  '  The  noble  army  of  martyrs  praise  Thee.'  " 

She  paused,  thinking  that  the  rest  had,  perhaps,  better 
wait  for  some  other  time.  Hugo  obediently  took  the  wine 


302  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

which  she  held  to  his  lips,  but  looked  up  presently  with 
an  eager  entreaty. 

"  Talk  on/'  he  said,  pleadingly  ;  "  your  voice  comforts 
me." 

"  Ducasse  caught  sight  of  me  afterwards,"  said  Mary, 
yielding  to  his  entreaty.  "  And  he  came  and  spoke  to  me, 
poor  fellow.  Almost  the  last  thing  I  had  seen  Colonel 
Sidney  do  before  he  laid  aside  his  hat  and  doublet  was  to 
place  a  paper  in  his  man's  hand,  and  speak  a  few  words  to 
him,  which  I  could  not  hear.  And  that  paper,  Hugo,  was 
for  you — Ducasse  gave  it  me." 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  letter,  directed  to  Hugo  in 
Sidney's  large,  bold  handwriting.  Hugo  eagerly  unfolded 
it,  but  the  moment  he  tried  to  read  his  head  swam,  and  he 
was  forced  to  ask  Mary  to  read  it  to  him.  The  letter  ran 
as  follows  : 

"My  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  had  well-nigh  said  my  son,  seeing  that 
of  late  you  have  been  to  me  as  son  to  father.  I  have  but  a  short 
time  left  to  me  in  this  world,  and  have  many  matters  to  order 
and  arrange,  but  you  shall  stand  second  to  none,  and  I  will  write 
you  while  yet  time  remains  to  me.  And  first,  to  thank  you  for 
your  loving  silence,  for  your  firm  constancy.  I  rejoice  that  your 
life  is  like  to  be  spared,  and  that  I  can  hope  and  pray — as  I  do 
most  fervently — that  you  may  be  spared  to  work  for  the  old 
cause  when  I  am  no  more.  You  "will  have  heard  of  my  trial  ere 
this.  The  lord  chief-justice  is  said  to  have  bragged  unto  the 
king  that  no  man  in  his  place  had  ever  rendered  unto  any  king 
of  England  such  services  as  he  had  done  in  procuring  my  death. 
In  truth,  he  overruled  eight  or  ten  very  important  points  of  law, 
and  decided  them  without  hearing,  whereby  the  law  itself  was 
made  a  snare  which  no  man  could  avoid,  nor  have  any  security 
for  his  life  or  fortune,  if  one  vile  wretch  could  be  found  to  swear 
against  him  such  circumstances  as  he  required.  God  only  knows 
what  will  be  the  issue  of  the  like  practice  in  these  our  days. 
Perhaps  He  will  in  mercy  speedily  visit  His  afflicted  people.  I 
die  in  the  faith  that  He  will  do  it,  though  I  know  not  the  time 
or  ways. 

"  I  believe  that  the  people  of  God  in  England  have,  in  these 
late^years,  generally  grown  faint.  Some,  through  fear,  have  de- 
flected from  the  integrity  of  their  principles.  Some  have  too 
deeply  plunged  themselves  in  worldly  cares,  and,  so  they  might 
enjoy  their  trades  and  wealth,  have  less  regarded  the  treasure 
that  is  laid  up  in  heaven.  But  I  think  there  are  very  many  who 
have  kept  their  garments  unspotted  ;  and  hope  that  God  will 
deliver  them  and  the  nation  for  their  sakes.  God  will  not  suffer 
this  land,  where  the  Gospel  hath  of  late  flourished  more  than  in 
any  part  of  the  world,  to  become  a  slave  of  the  world  ;  He  will 
not  suffer  it  to  be  made  a  land  of  graven  images,  He  will  stir  up 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  303 

witnesses  of  the  truth,  and,  in  His  own  time,  spirit  His  people  to 
stand  up  for  his  cause,  and  deliver  them,  I  live  in-  this  belief, 
and  am  now  about  to  die  in  it.  I  know  that  my  Kedeemer 
liveth  ;  and,  as  He  hath  in  a  great  measure  upheld  me  in  the  day 
of  my  calamity,  hope  that  He  will  still  uphold  me  by  His  Spirit 
in  this  last  moment,  and  give  me  grace  to  glorify  Him  in  my 
death. 

"For,  in  truth,  Hugo,  I  hold  it  a  great  honor  that  God  hath 
permitted  me  to  be  singled  out  as  a  witness  of  His  truth,  and 
even  by  the  confession  of  my  opposers  for  that,  good  old  cause 
in  which  I  was  from  my  youth  engaged,  and  for  which  God  hath 
often  and  wonderfully  declared  Himself. 

"Farewell,  dear  lad,  keep  a  brave  heart  in  your  prison,  make 
the  spirit  triumph  over  the  flesh,  and  may  God  grant  you  at 
length  your  liberty,  that  you  may  the  better  serve  Him.  What- 
ever betide — whether  in  prison  or  at  large — keep  the  words  of 
our  motto  graven  on  your  heart,  '  Sanctus  amor  patrice  dat  ani- 
mum.'  "  Your  most  faithful  friend, 

"AL.  SIDNEY." 

When  the  letter  was  ended  Mary  once  more  told  him 
everything  that  passed  that  morning,  describing  all  simply 
and  truthfully,  so  that  he  knew  she*  kept  nothing  back 
from  him,  and  was  satisfied.  The  violence  of  his  grief  was 
over;  he  was  quite  calm  now,  only  unspeakably  weary  and  sad. 

"  After  all,"  he  said  just  before  Mary  left  him,  "  I  too 
may  follow  ere  long.  The  scaffold  is  not  the  only  way  to 
death." 

"  You  forget,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  you  forget  one 
who  needs  you,  one  who  wearies  for  your  coming.  Do  not 
speak  of  dying;  you  must  live  for  Joyce." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  "  That  is  all  over. 
I  have  bid  her  to  be  free  and  to  think  of  me  no  more. 
What  right  have  I  to  blight  her  life,  I — who  must  live  for- 
ever in  this  hellish  Newgate  ?" 

She  would  have  replied,  but  at  that  moment  Sir  William 
drew  near. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  in  his  kindly  voice — "  my  dear,  I  do 
not  wish  to  rob  Hugo  of  his  nurse,  but  you  look  to  me 
overwrought  and  weary;  I  think  you  had  better  come 
home." 

Hugo  looked  up  ;  even  his  troubles  had  not  made  him 
very  observant  ;  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  looked  search- 
ingly  in  Mary's  face.  Her  brilliant  color  had  faded,  there 
were  dark  shadows  below  her  eyes,  effort  was  written  upon 
her  once  serene  brow,  and  exhaustion  upon  her  pale  lips. 
As  Sir  William  spoke  her  head  drooped  a  little,  but  she 
made  no  remonstrance. 


304  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  God  bless  you  for  what  you  have  done  !"  cried  Hugo, 
and  again  he  caught  her  hand  in  his  ;  then,  turning  to  Sir 
William,  "She  is  the  best  of  comforters — the  best!" 

Sir  William  was  quite  right.  Mary  was  both  overwrought 
and  exhausted.  She  was  glad  to  go  straight  to  bed  on  reach- 
ing home,  and  to  escape  any  further  conversation  about 
Sidney's  death  or  Hugo's  convalescence.  But  darkness 
and  solitude  brought  her  no  rest,  but  instead  the  most  hor- 
rible temptation  of  her  wkole  life.  Hugo  no  longer  con- 
sidered himself  betrothed  to  Joyce  Wharncliffe  ;  he  had 
told  her  so  with  his  own  lips — bad  told  her  that  he  would 
on  no  account  hold  Joyce  to  a  promise  which  would  blight 
her  life.  And  then,  just  after  that,  he  had  held  her  hand 
in  bis  with  a  touch  which  yet  lingered  there,  and  bad  called 
her  tlie  best  of  comforters.  Might  she  not  win  bis  love  ?  It 
would  not  blight  her  life  to  love  him,  though  he  were 
imprisoned  all  bis  days  ;  rather,  to  be  loved  by  him,  and 
confessedly  to  love  him,  would  be  heaven  itself. 

And  then  her  uncle's  words  leturned  to  her — the  words 
which  bad  caused  hejr  sucb  burning  blushes  as  tbey  drove 
that  first  night  to  tbe  prison — "I  would  thou  hadsi  been 
betrothed  to  him,  then  there  could  have  been  no  handle 
for  scandal-mongers  in  this  visit."  She  wished  he  had 
never  spoken  those  words,  wished  that  they  had  not  called 
up  for  her  a  double  vision  of  sweet,  sheltered,  protected 
peace,  and  of  solitary,  hard  exposure  to  all  the  bitter 
blasts  which  in  this  evil  world  were  like  to  blow  on  her. 
And  to  love  him  in  his  dreary  imprisonment,  to  love  him, 
even  without  any  hope  but  that  of  bringing  a  ray  of  com- 
fort to  him  in  that  cell,  what  more  could  heart  of  woman 
crave  ? 

No  one  who  truly  loved  him  could  think  otherwise. 
What !  were  mere  prison  walls  to  blight  love  ?  A  fig  for 
such  love  as  that !  True  love  would  scorn  so  trumpery  a 
separation,  would  gladly  wait  through  years  upon  years 
with  no  other  privilege  than  that  of  loving  and  being 
loved. 

"  And  thus  would  Joyce  speak,"  said  a  voice  in  her 
heart. 

That  voice  made  her  shudder  ;  it  was  the  consciousness 
of  right  once  more  claiming  its  dominion  over  her  ;  she 
burst  into  an  agony  of  tears,  passionately  sobbing  in  the 
darkness  words  which  until  now  had  never  escaped  her  lips 
— "  I  love  him  !  I  love  him !  My  God,  I  love  him  !  " 

The  reaction  from  the  horrors  of  the  morning,  the  ex- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  305 

haustion  which  naturally  followed  such  a  strain,  the  recol- 
lection of  Hugo's  words,  the  mingled  weariness  and  excite- 
ment— all  were  against  her.  Yet  because  her  love  was 
pure,  because  her  love  was  true,  she  was  saved.  She  did 
in  very  truth  love  Hugo,  therefore  the  thought  of  his  hap- 
piness was  ever  paramount,  her  own  altogether  secondary. 
He  loved  Joyce  Wharncliffe  and  Joyce  loved  him — then 
she  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  end  their  sorrow  and 
separation,  she  would  keep  Hugo  from  sinking  into  that 
dreary  acquiescence  with  a  cruel  fate,  an  acquiescence  to 
which  his  nature  would  inevitably  incline.  Oh,  yes !  she 
would  serve  them — would  serve  them.  And  with  that  her 
tears  flowed  more  gently — she  even  smiled  through  them, 
and  her  old  visions  of  Joyce  came  back  to  her,  and  she 
chid  herself  for  haying  allowed  them  to  fade. 

The  next  day  things  favored  her  plans.     Griffith  went 
out  to   walk  in  the   paved  passage  to  which  they  were 
allowed  access,  and  Francis  Bampfield,  who  for  some  time 
past  had  been  in  failing  health,  lay  asleep  on  his  bed, 
leaving  her  to  what  was  practically  a  tete-a-tete  with  Hugo. 
"  Will  you  give  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  plainly,  Hugo  ?" 
she  asked  ;  "as  old  friend,  sister,  mentor!" 
He  looked  up  languidly.     She  resumed. 
"  Had  I  known  what  your  letter  to  Mistress  Wharncliffe 
contained  I  think  I  should  have  refused  to  give  it  to  the 
post." 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  turning  away  with  a 
gesture  of  pain  "'Twas  hard  enough  to  do,  but  'tis  done 
now.  Did  I  not  tell  you  yesternight  that  I  would  suffer 
anything  rather  than  blight  her  life." 

"  That  is  how  you  men  folk  talk,"  said  Mary,  quickly. 
"  But,  believe  me,' Hugo,  you  are  mistaken.  Lives  are  not 
so  easily  blighted.  Trust  me,  we  women  are  stronger  than 
you  think  for,  ay,  and  braver  and  more  patient.  Mistress 
"Wharncliffe  loves  you.  Do  you  believe  that  any  woman  who 
truly  loves  a  man  would  not  rather  be  a  maid  all  her  life  for 
love  of  him,  than  be  what  you  call  free.  Free!  In  good 
sooth  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  free  !  Would  you  so 
wrong  her  as  to  think  that,  while  you  for  her  father's  sake 
lie  here  in  jail,  she  would  go  and  wed  some  other  ?  You 
wrong  our  sex  an  you  can  dream  of  such  a  thing." 

Hugo  was  silent ;  this  was  altogether  a  new  view  of  the 
case,  a  view  which  certainly  would  never  have  occurred  to 
him.  Yet  it  had  a  sound  of  truth  in  it.  But  again  the 
thought  of  the  years  of  suspense  and  waiting  and  sor- 


306  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

row  for  Joyce  rose  before  him.     He  turned  away  with  a 
groan. 

"  I  would  I  had  never  told  her  of  my  love." 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  minute.  When  she  could  trust 
herself  to  speafe,  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  I  don't  know  Mistress  Wharncliffe,  yet  I  think  that 
she  would  never  agree  to  such  a  sentence  as  that.  Have 
you  not  given  her  the  right  openly,  confessedly,  to  love  you. 
Have  you  not  given  her  the  best  gift  a  man  can  give  ?  And 
as  the  thought  of  her  love  brings  comfort  to  you  in  this 
grewsome  jail,  so  doth  your  love  bring  comfort  to  her  at 
Mondisfield." 

"  I  do  not  see  it,"  he  groaned  ;  "  I  can  do  naught  for 
her,  naught !  My  love  comfort  her,  forsooth  !  How  should 
it  comfort  her  ?" 

Her  eyes  swam  with  tears  which  would  no  longer  be  re- 
strained. Hastily  rising,  she  made  a  pretence  of  stirring 
the  sea-coal  fire. 

"  You  foolish  lad !"  she  exclaimed,  taking  good  care  not 
to  turn  her  face  toward  him  as  she  spoke — "  you  foolish 
lad  !  Why,  to  know  that  she  has  your  love  will  be  com- 
fort enow.  To  know  that  you  live  for  her,  keep  brave  and 
patient  for  her,  to  know  that  you  think  of  her,  dream  of 
her,  pray  for  her,  hope  for  her.  To  know  that  by  your 
silence  you  protect  her,  by  your  noble  suffering  shield  her, 
by  your  heart's  deep  love  delight  to  do  all  this — what  more 
could  woman  desire  ?  Is  not  that  comfort  ?  Would  bar- 
ren, painless  peace  without  you  have  been  better  ?" 

He  was  silent.     Mary  returned  to  her  former  place. 

"  There,  you  gave  me  leave  to  play  the  scold,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "And  now  I  will  forbear;  nay,  I  will  confess 
what  I  know  to  be  the  truth,  that  where  you  have  one  fault, 
I  have  a  hundred." 

"  One!"  said  Hugo,  with  a  look  of  amusement.      "  Which?" 

'•  You  acquiesce  too  readily  in  suffering,  you  patiently  en- 
dure when  you  ought  to  resist,  you  are  resigned  where  you 
ought  to  hope  against  hope.  Make  me  a  present  of  your 
quiet  resignation,  Hugo;  for,  in  truth,  I  could  very  well  do 
with  it.  Call  back  the  goddess  of  Hope,  and  bid  her  drive 
away  your  despondency,  and  throw  her  rainbow  arch  over 
the  future  you  paint  so  black." 

"  For  what  would  you  have  me  hope  ?" 

"  For  freedom — for  Joyce  !" 

"  I  have  no  reasonable  ground  to  look  for  aught  but 
lifelong  imprisonment." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  307 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  am  only  a  woman,  and  ignorant.  But, 
look  you,  kings  have  been  known  to  relent.  Moreover, 
prisoners  have  oft  been  pardoned  by  succeeding  monarchs, 
and  the  king  and  the  Duke  of  York  are  both  of  them  past 
middle  age  while  you  are  but  twenty.  Also  " — she  low- 
ered her  voice  to  a  whisper — "prisoners  sometimes  es- 
cape. There,  I'm  weary;  scolding  is  hard  work.  And, 
since  Thomas  is  in  waiting  for  me,  I  will  go  home.  Fare- 
well. Think  of  what  I  have  said." 

He  did  think.  What  else  was  there  left  for  him  to  do  ? 
He  escaped  from  bodily  and  mental  pain,  and  once 
more  allowed  tender  thoughts  of  the  past,  eager  hopes 
for  the  future,  to  cheer  his  present  dreariness.  His 
happy,  free  life  returned  to  him  once  more — he  dared  to 
live  through  that  magic  time,  the  last  days  of  his  youth,  as 
it  had  proved  from  the  October  when  he  had  first  seen 
Joyce  to  the  midsummer  when  all  had  been  ended  in 
Newgate.  Those  golden  months  when  he  had  hoped  with 
a  delicious,  vague  hope,  had  feared  with  a  half-hopeful, 
half-happy  fear.  Once  more  he  talked  with  the  little 
Duchess  of  Grafton,  once  more  he  half  confessed  to  Mary 
his  hopes  and  fears  with  regard  to  Joyce,  once  more  he 
roamed  through  the  stately  old  rooms  of  Penshurst,  ever 
in  company  with  his  master  and  friend,  once  more  he  was 
at  Mondisfield  telling  Joyce  of  his  love,  in  the  north  par- 
lor. And  it  was  no  longer  all  pain  that  looking  back, 
for  Mary's  words  had  done  their  work.  For  her,  there 
had  been  tears  and  grief,  but  all  the  time  the  sun  of 
love  shining ;  and  thus  she  had  brought  Hope's  rainbow 
into  the  life  of  another. 


308  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTER  XXXTV. 

THE   DUCHESS   OF    GRA.FTON. 

In  all  thy  need  be  thou  possest 
Still  with  a  well-prepared  breast; 
Nor  let  the  shackles  make  thee  sad; 
Thou  canst  but  have  what  others  had. 
And  this  for  comfort  thou  must  know: 
Times  that  are  ill  won't  still  be  so; 
Clouds  will  not  ever  pour  down  rain, 
A  sullen  day  will  clear  again; 
First  peals  of  thunder  we  must  hear, 
Then  lutes  and  harps  shall  strike  the  ear. 

HEKBICK. 

THAT  afternoon  Mary  went  to  visit  the  little  duchess, 
who,  married  in  her  babyhood,  was  now,  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, a  mother.  The  grand  bed-chamber,  with  its  magni- 
ficant  fittings  and  furnishings,  was  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  Newgate  cell  where  lay  her  other  friend,  and  the  con- 
trast struck  Mary  somewhat  painfully  as  she  was  ushered 
in  by  a  pompous  old  nurse;  but  when  the  silken  bed-cur- 
tains were  drawn  back  she  forgot  the  contrast  in  the  pleas- 
ure of  once  more  seeing  her  friend. 

The  little  Duchess  of  Graf  ton  looked  sweeter  than  ever 
in  her  lying-in  cap  and  dainty,  lace-trimmed  robe;  she  was 
pale  as  a  lily,  but  seemed  bright  and  well,  and  with  already 
the  soft,  tender  light  of  maternity  in  her  eyes.  The  tiny, 
red-faced  baby  was  nestled  close  to  her;  she  kept  stroking 
his  dark,  downy  head  as  she  talked. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you  this  age,  Mary!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Do  you  know  that  I  began  to  receive  visitors 
on  the  twenty-sixth  of  last  month?  And  you,  my  cldteest 
friend,  put  me  off  with  the  9th  of  December." 

"  I  would  have  come,"  said  Mary,  "  but  indeed  my  aunt 
advised  not,  and  said  you  would  be  overdone  with  seeing 
so  many.  And,  moreover,  we  have  had  much  to  occupy  us 
of  late.  Mr.  Evelyn  told  a^e  ks  had  seen  you  and  the  babe. 
What  a  bonny  wee  man  he  is." 

"  Is  he  not  ?"  said  the  little  mother,  raising  herself  on  her 
elbow  that  she  might  better  display  her  first-born.  "  Yes, 
Mr.  Evelyn  saw  him  the  first  of  all,  and  is  so  much  in  love 
that  he  is  coming  again  to-day.  I  hear  he  has  taken  a  house 
in  London  for  the  winter.  That  is  good  hearing." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  309 

"  Yes,  he  has  taken  a  house  in  Villiers  Street,  and  so  is 
a  near  neighbor.  He  is  come  chiefly  the  better  to  educate 
his  daughters.  Mr.  Evelyn  thinks  much  of  education." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  little  duchess,  laughing  ;  "  he  and  I  have 
already  discussed  my  babe's  future.  Have  we  not,  my 
bonny  Charlie  ?" 

"Is  he  to  be  Charles?" 

"  After  his  grandfather.  But  you  are  not  to  be  like  his 
majesty,  for  all  that,  my  son.  No,  no,  we  know  better, 
you  and  I.  There!  take  him,  Mary,  before  I  talk  any 
more  treason  to  him.  You  can  not  see  him  under  this 
dark  canopy." 

Mary  sat  nursing  the  babe,  and  ere  long  in  came  the  old 
nurse  with  the  caudle-cup  and  the  cake-basket. 

"  There,  now,  you  must  do  your  duty,"  said  the  little 
duchess,  laughing.  "  For  my  part,  I  affect  the  cake,  but 
not  the  caudle  ;  and  that  tyrant  nurse  will  never  let  me 
have  all  I  should  like.  Your  mother  is  a  gourmande,  my 
wee  Charlie,  an  outrageous  gourmande.  She  must  mend 
her  ways  ere  you  come  to  years  of  discretion." 

"  The  caudle  is  good  for  your  grace,"  said  the  old  nurse, 
sententiously.  "  Good  wine,  good  bread,  good  spice  and 
sugar  will  hearten  up  your  grave,  and  bring  the  color  back 
to  your  cheeks.  But  cakes — there  be  nought  that  is  whole- 
some in  cakes." 

"  Good  flour,  good  spices  and  sugar,"  retorted  the  duch- 
ess, laughing.  "  But  there,  'tis  ever  the  same,  is  it  not, 
Mary  ?  What  we  best  like,  that  is  not  for  our  good;  what  we 
shrink  from,  that  is  ever  the  one  thing  needful.  Who 
would  have  thought  so  much  philosophy  was  to  be  found 
in  my  old  nurse,  with  her  cakes  and  caudle !  And  now," 
said  the  duchess,  growing  grave  once  more,  as  the  nurse 
withdrew  from  the  apartment;  "and  now,  Mary,  tell  me 
of  all  that  hath  happened.  Do  not  fear.  The  rumor  of  all 
the  horrors  hath  penetrated  even  this  quiet  room.  Oh, 
never  think  that  I  have  forgot  you  all,  that  I  have  been 
selfish  and  heedless  in  this  luxury  of  illness.  I  have  prayed 
for  you,  and  for  them;  only,  for  the  sake  of  my  babe,  I 
dared  not  hear  too  much,  dared  not  ask  too  many  ques- 
tions." 

"  Dear,  do  not  ask  them  now,"  said  Mary,  quietly.  "  Of 
what  avail  is  it  that  you  should  know  what  could  only  make 
you  sorrowful  ?" 

"  They  told  me,  or,  rather,  I  heard,  of  Colonel  Sidney's 
death.  I  knew  it  was  to  be  the  seventh.  Some  visitor 


310  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

mentioned  it  to  my  father,  forgetting  perchance  that  I  lay 
behind  these  curtains,  and  might  possibly  care  that  a  brave 
man  was  to  be  done  to  death.  Yet  I  am  glad  too  that  I 
knew  ;  for,  as  the  hour  drew  near,  I  lay  here  and  prayed 
for  him.  Tell  me,  how  died  he  ?" 

"  Like  one  of  the  noble  army  of  martyrs,"  said  Mary. 

"  And  Hugo  Wharncliffe  yet  lives  ?" 

"  He  yet  lives,  and  is  like  to  live." 

"  Oh,  it  is  terrible  to  me  to  think  of  him,"  said  the  little 
duchess,  keeping  back  her  tears  with  difficulty.  "It 
seems  to  me  worse  than  Colonel  Sidney's  case,  for  he  at 
least  is  at  rest,  and  his  pain  must  have  been  sharp  and 
short  ;  but  the  other — such  a  long  torture  ;  and  to  be 
made  thus  a  public  spectacle  !  When  I  think  of  him  as  he 
was  at  Whitehall  but  a  few  months  since — when  I  remem- 
ber him  at  the  Gray's  Inn  masque,  so  bravely  clad,  so 
happy,  I  could  weep  my  heart  out." 

"  They  say  the  king  would  fain  have  saved  him,"  said 
Mary.  "  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  be  induced  to  set  him 
at  liberty?" 

"I  can  not  tell,  he  changes  so;  he  is  not  what  he  once 
was,  kind  and  gracious;  now  he  is  ofttimes  heavy  and  sul- 
len; no  one  knows  how  to  take  him." 

"  They  say  he  is  ill,  that  this  humor  in  his  leg  affects 
him  more  than  was  at  first  thought  for.  But  you,  he  is 
fond  of  you,  he  might  hearken  to  you." 

"  What !  you  think  I  might  plead  for  Mr.  Wharncliffe  ? 
I  would  do  so  most  gladly.  Oh !  do  you  really  think  he 
would  hearken  to  me  ?  Perhaps  now — now  that  I  have 
brought  him  a  grandson  and  a  namesake.  Oh,  little  son ! 
we  will  put  it  all  upon  you !  You  shall  rescue  Mr. 
Wharncliffe  from  Newgate!  You  shall  be  a  deliverer 
while  yet  in  swaddling-clothes.  And  here  in  good  time 
comes  Mr.  Evelyn.  We  will  consult  with  him." 

There  entered  an  elderly  man,  quietly  but  richly  dressed 
in  dark  purple ;  his  face  was  delightful — the  brow  high 
and  intellectual,  the  features  refined,  the  expression 
thoughtful  but  not  abstracted,  the  eyes  kind  and  gentle, 
yet  keenly  observant.  The  little  duchess  had  chosen  her 
adviser  well.  Mr.  Evelyn  was  before  all  things  a  man  to 
be  consulted.  He  thought  well  of  their  plan,  and  spoke 
hopefully  of  Hugo's  release. 

"They  tell  me  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe  was  intimate 
with  Colonel  Sidney,  and  that  this  had  much  to  do  with 
the  severity  of  his  sentence." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  311 

"Yes,"  said  Mary.  "He  knew  Mr.  Sidney  well,  and 
reverenced  him  greatly.  He  is  half  heart-broken  now,  for, 
like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  sentence  was  a  surprise 
to  him." 

"  Sir  George  Jeffreys  hath  much  to  answer  for,"  said 
Mr.  Evelyn  gravely.  "  It  was  an  ill  day  for  England  when 
he  was  promoted.  But  a  day  or  two  since  I  met  with  him 
at  a  wedding — the  wedding  of  jolly  Mrs.  Castle,  of  whom 
no  doubt  you  have  heard." 

"  What,  the  lady  that  hath  had  five  husbands  ?  Was  Sir 
George  Jeffreys  there  ?" 

"  Ay,  he  was  there,  and  the  lord  mayor  and  the  sheriff, 
too,  besides  many  aldermen  and  persons  of  quality. 
Jeffreys  danced  with  the  bride,  and  spent  the  night  till 
eleven  of  the  clock  drinking  healths,  taking  tobacco,  and 
talking,  to  my  mind,  much  beneath  the  gravity  of  a  judge 
who,  but  a  day  or  two  before,  condemned  Mr.  Algernon 
Sidney." 

Mary  treasured  this  up  to  tell  Hugo,  who,  in  his  bitter- 
ness of  soul,  was  beginning  to  think  that  justice  and 
mercy  were  qualities  which  existed  in  no  other  Tory  save 
Sir  William  Denham.  Mr.  Evelyn  was  no  partisan  ;  he 
was  too  broad-minded,  too  gentle,  for  that,  but  he  was 
emphatically  a  Tory,  refined,  cultured,  scientific,  and,  in  so 
far  as  science  went,  progressive  ;  but  in  political  matters 
he  had  always  been,  and  always  would  be,  opposed  to  all 
change. 

"  "You  think  he  was  unjustly  condemned  ?"  asked  the  lit- 
tle duchess,  wistfully. 

"  Most  assuredly,"  said  Mr.  Evelyn.  "  For  he  was  con- 
demned on  the  single  witness  of  that  monster  of  a  man, 
Lord  Howard  of  Escrick,  and  some  sheets  of  paper  taken  in 
Mr.  Sidney's  study,  pretended  to  be  written  by  him,  but  not 
fully  proved,  nor  the  time  when,  but  appearing  to  have 
been  written  before  his  majesty's  restoration,  and  thus  par- 
doned by  the  Act  of  Oblivion." 

"  I  suppose  every  one  knows  that  Mr.  Sidney  was  averse 
to  Government  by  a  king,"  said  Mary,  wishing  to  elicit 
more  from  Mr.  Evelyn. 

"  Quite  true,  and  he  had  been  an  inveterate  enemy  to  our 
blessed  martyr,  nathless,  he  had  hard  measure.  Sidney 
was  a  man  of  great  courage,  great  sense,  great  parts.  He 
showed  that  both  at  his  trial  and  his  death.  Methought 
there  was  something  very  fine  in  the  way  he  told  the  peo- 
ple he  came  not  there  to  talk,  but  to  die.  However,  we 


312  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

must  not  discourse  of  executions  in  this  room  ;  'tis  not  fit- 
ting. Train  up  your  son  to  be  loyal  to  Iris  sovereign,  my 
dear  little  friend,  and  pray  God  to  keep  him  from  being  in- 
volved in  wild  schemes  for  reform." 

"lam  scheming  already  to  make  him  a  reformer,  or 
rather,  a  deliverer,"  said  the  duchess,  laughing.  "You 
are  to  fascinate  his  majesty  at  your  christening,  my  son, 
and  then  I  will  plead  with  him  for  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

But,  alas,  the  pleading  was  of  no  avail.  The  little 
duchess  did  her  best,  but  she  failed  completely.  The  king 
protested  that  he  had  done  all  he  could  for  Mr.  HugoWbarn- 
cliffe,  that  he  had  obstinately  rejected  all  offers  of  help, 
and  that  now  he  must  be  left  to  his  fate.  It  would  be  im- 
possible for  the  king  to  pardon  him  after  certain  words 
that  had  passed  between  them  at  their  last  interview. 

"  Would  you  have  me  deal  more  leniently  with  him  than 
with  my  son  ?"  he  asked,  his  brow  darkening.  "  No,  no, 
my  love,  I  am  sorry  to  refuse  you  aught  on  this  gala-day, 
but  recall  to  mind  the  French  proverb,  '  Comme  on  fait  son 
lit  on  se  couche.'  I  offered  Hugo  Wharncliffe  a  post  at 
Whitehall  ;  he  elected  to  stay  in  Newgate.  What  would 
you,  then  ?  Am  I  to  blame  ?" 

So  Hugo  stayed  in  Newgate,  and,  thanks  to  the  care  and 
solicitude  of  tbe  Denhams,  slowly  recovered  his  health  and 
spirits.  He  was,  after  all,  young  and  full  of  life  ;  even  tbe 
cruel  cold  which  now  set  in  did  not  retard  his  convales- 
cence ;  be  suffered  severely  from  it,  but  it  did  him  little 
harm.  With  Francis  Bampfield  it  was  otherwise.  As  the 
younger  man  grew  stronger  the  elder  grew  weaker.  It 
was  quite  right,  he  said,  quite  natural  ;  he  had  fought  a 
good  fight,  and  had  well  irigb  finished  his  course. 

Kupert  Denbam  had  felt  himself  to  be  out  of  place 
during  Hugo's  illness,  and  after  that  first  night  had  not 
returned  to  Newgate,  but  had  left  his  friend  to  the  care  of 
Sir  William,  Mary,  and  old  Jeremiah.  Illness  and  sorrow 
were  so  foreign  to  bis  nature  that  perhaps  he  did  well  to 
keep  aloof  ;  but  when  Hugo  recovered  be  made  a  point  of 

going  often  to  the  prison,  and  doing  his  best  to  enliven 
im.  His  first  visit  was  in  January,  and  Scroop,  always 
pleased  to  usher  in  visitors  to  see  the  one  prisoner  whose 
welfare  he  had  at  heart,  grinned  broadly  as  he  showed 
into  the  dreary-looking  cell  this  incongruous  gallant  in 
his  feathers  and  furbelows.  Griffith  was  aghast  at  his 
swaggering  gait  and  jovial,  hearty  manner. 

He  embraced  his  friend  with  much  affection  and  many 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  313 

oaths  ;  then,  turning  to  the  two  old  men,  bowed  cour- 
teously. 

"  Good-morrow,  Mr.  Bampfield;  good-morrow,  good  Doc- 
tor Griffith;  I  hope  I  see  you  both  well.  Why,  by  the 
powers  !  you  have  made  another  man  of  my  friend  here. 
Hugo,  the  gods  must  have  given  you  the  hide  of  a  rhi- 
noceros and  the  strength  of  a  Hercules,  to  have  recovered 
so  speedily.  Here,  jailer !  bring  us  some  wine,  we  must 
drink  my  good  friend's  health.  They  tell  me  you  have  a 
full  cellar  in  this  grim  hole,  and  that  Bacchus  smiles 
kindly  on  the  wan  prisoner  if  he  doth  but  show  him  the 
glint  of  gold.  Come,  bring  us  your  best," 

Griffith,  aghast  at  this  unseemly  merriment,  asked  leave 
of  Scroop  to  go  forth  for  his  daily  exercise,  and  Hugo, 
much  relieved  to  see  him  depart,  gave  himself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  his  friend's  visit,  only  bidding  him  moderate 
his  noise,  lest  Bampfield  should  be  disturbed. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  old  man,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth,  "nay,  you  disturb  me  not:  Enjoy  your  friend,  my 
lad,  and  do  not  trouble  about  me." 

"  A  jolly  old  sinner,  worth  ten  of  the  other,  with  his 
vinegar  face !"  exclaimed  Rupert  in  an  audible  aside. 
"  Sir,  we  drink  to  your  health.  Long  life  and  prosperity 
to  Mr.  Francis  Bampfield." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  toast,  gentlemen,"  said  Bampfield, 
smiling  kindly  on  them.  "  'Twas  courteously  meant.  Yet 
I  do  not  desire  either  the  one  or  the  other.  I  am  content 
to  be  without  what  men  call  prosperity,  preferring  to  be 
the  Lord's  free  prisoner.  And  as  to  long  life,  why,  your 
friend  will  tell  you  it  is  scarce  to  be  wished  for  in  this 
cell." 

"  In  truth,  we  have  suffered  much  since  this  cold,"  said 
Hugo.  '•  Scroop  tells  me  prisoners  die  by  scores  in  the 
other  wards.  We  are  lapped  in  luxury  here,  yet  the  cold 
is  so  intense  that  our  breath  freezes  on  the  pillow,  and  we 
almost  forget  what  warmth  means." 

"Ah!  if  you  were  but  free,  what  times  we  would  have!" 
exclaimed  Denham  with  a  sigh.  "The  Thames  is  frozen — 
did  they  tell  you  ?  A  fresh  town  is  springing  up  in  mid- 
river — streets  of  booths,  folks  walking  or  skating  in  all 
parts,  coaches  plying  up  and  down  from  Westminster  to  the 
Temple,  and  all  London  turned  out  to  see  the  fun.  It  is  a 
carnival,  I  tell  you.  By  St.  Kit,  I  would  give  the  world  for 
you  to  be  there  to  see.  Oxen  roasted  whole,  bull-baiting, 
horse-races,  puppet-plays,  and  gewgaws  and  venders 


314  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

enough  for  a  Bartholomew  fair.  See  here,  I  had  my  name 
printed  right  in  mid-stream,  for  some  wily  craftsman  hath 
set  up  a  printing  press  there,  which  takes  mighty  well,  and 
brings  in  much  custom." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  neatly  printed  card,  with  a 
treble  border,  and  the  words, 

"  Mr.  Rupert  Denham, 

Printed  on  the  River  of  Thames,  being  frozen, 

In  the  36th  year  of  King  Charles  II., 

24*/i  January,  1684." 

Hugo  was  eager  to  hear  all  the  news;  even  to  look  at 
Denham's  jolly  face  cheered  him.  At  length,  with  some- 
thing of  an  effort,  he  stemmed  the  tide  of  his  merriment, 
and  asked  the  question  that  was  most  at  his  heart. 

"  My  brother — have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  Ay,  I  saw  him  not  long  since,"  said  Denham,  frowning. 

"And  you  spoke  with- him?" 

"I!"  exclaimed  Denham,  wrathfully.  "Odds-fish,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  would  sooner  be  hanged!  Speak  to  him, 
i'  faith !  Why,  I  would  not  so  much  as  touch  my  beaver  to 
him  in  the  street !" 

Hugo  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  Where  did  you  see  him  ?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

"  At  the  Temple  Church."  Then,  as  Hugo  looked  sur- 
prised, "  Oh,  all  the  world  and  his  wife,  was  there,  'twas  no 
ordinary  day;  it  was  to  hear  the  rival  organs  played,  and 
to  be  present  at  the  final  decision." 

"  Ah !  hath  that  at  length  been  done  ?"  said  Hugo,  much 
interested. 

He  had  watched  the  rival  organ-builders,  Father  Smith 
and  Renatus  Harris,  for  many  months;  each  had  built  an 
organ  in  different  parts  of  the  Temple  Church,  and  the 
finer  organ  was  to  be  retained;  they  both  proved,  however, 
so  perfect  that  the  decision  was  a  most  difficult  one,  and 
the  builders  went  on  challenging  each  other,  and  adding 
new  stops  to  each  organ,  until  it  seemed  that  the  choice 
would  never  be  made. 

"  And  how  hath  it  ended  !"    asked  Hugo,  eagerly. 

"Well,  Dr.  Tudway  came  and  performed  on  Father 
Smith's  instrument,  and  Lulli  on  the  other,  and  all  the 
world  came  to  hearken;  and  whom  do  you  think  they  chose 
to  judge  betwixt  the  two?  why,  that  beast,  that  fiend,  that 
devil  incarnate,  Jeffreys  i 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  315 

"  I  am  sorry  lie  had  a  hand  in  it,"  said  Hugo.  "  To 
which  builder  did  he  award  the  palm  ?" 

"To  Father  Smith;  but  they  say  the  other  organ  hath 
suffered  nothing  in  reputation,  for  the  choice  hath  baffled 
better  judges  than  Jeffreys." 

"  And  Randolph,"  returned  Hugo  ;  "  did  he  look  well  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Eupert.  "He  had  been  drinking, 
and  seemed  in  very  jovial  mood.  There,  don't  speak  of  him ; 
it  makes  my  gorge  rise.  Pardon  me,  I  know  he  was  your 
brother  once,  but,  methinks,  now  he  hath  disowned  you, 
you  might  give  me  leave  to  rail  at  him." 

"  I  have  not  disowned  him,"  said  Hugo,  quietly;  "  there- 
fore, let  us  say  no  more  on  that  point." 

Denham  bottled  up  his  wrath  till  he  was  out  of  New- 
gate ;  but  then,  finding  it  no  longer  controllable,  joined  a 
band  of  scourers,  and  spent  the  evening  in  wrenching  off 
door-knockers,  assaulting  defenseless  shop-signs,  frighten- 
ing the  chapmen  into  fits,  and  hustling  everything  that  was 
capable  of  being  hustled.  Seeing  Randolph  "Wharncliffe 
and  his  villainy  in  all  these  innocent  objects,  he  at  length 
worked  off  his  indignation,  and  returned  to  Norfolk  Street 
by  and  by,  fairly  well  content  with  his  day's  work. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


FRANCIS   BAMPFIELD,    SAINT. 

Come,  gentle  death  !  the  ebb  of  care  ; 
The  ebb  of  care,  the  flood  of  life  ; 
The  flood  of  life,  the  joyful  fare  ; 
The  joyful  fare,    the  end  of  strife  ; 
The  end  of  strife,  that  thing  wish  I, 
Wherefore  come  death,  and  let  me  die. 

Anon.,  1557. 

ALL  was  very  quiet  in  the  Newgate  cell.  It  was  night. 
Griffith  slept,  and  forgot  the  cold,  but  a  rushlight  dimly 
revealed  two  wakeful  figures.  Bampfield  lay  on  a  mattress 
close  to  the  fire,  and  Hugo  sat  beside  him,  or,  rather, 
crouched  beside  him,  for  the  cold  was  excruciating,  and 
made  him  shiver  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  piled  almost 
all  the  wraps  at  his  disposal  on  the  dying  man,  and,  when 
Bampfield  remonstrated,  made  light  of  it. 

"  After  two  months  of  this  weather  I  am  acclimatized," 


316  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

he  said,  smiling.     "  Your  age  and  infirmity  make  you  feel 
the  cold  more." 

"  Nay,  dear  lad,"  said  the  old  man,  "  'tis  not  my  age 
makes  me  cold;  'tis  the  beginning  of  death.  I  shall  never 
be  warm  again — never  again.  Tell  me  what  day  is  it  ?" 

"  I  heard  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  ring  twelve  but  a  few 
minutes  since,"  replied  Hugo.  "  It  must  be  the  16th  of 
February." 

He  had  to  think  a  little  to  calculate  those  weary  days  of 
the  month;  for  time  was  monotonous  in  Newgate,  and 
there  was  little  to  note  its  slow  flight.  Nay,  the  word 
flight  was  a  mockery;  time  crept. 

"  This  will  be  my  last  day  of  earth,"  said  Bampfield, 
smiling.  "  Do  not  look  so  startled,  so  shocked.  I  am 
dying,  but  if  you  loved  me,  you  would  rejoice.  Feel  my 
feet,  they  are  cold  as  stone;  feel  my  pulse,  it  waxes  feeble. 
Christ  means  to  call  one  of  his  under-shepherd's  Lome  to 
Him  this  day  to  render  his  account." 

Hugo  looked  at  the  worn,  sunken  face,  with  its  dark 
shadows.  He  saw  that  Bampfield  was  right,  A  great  change 
had  come  over  the  features  that  had  grown  so  dear  to  him. 
He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  wept. 

"  I  have  been  more  of  a  care  than  a  comfort  to  you  of 
late,"  said  Bampfield,  feebly.  "  More  of  a  care  than  a  com- 
fort, lad.  Yet  mayhap  you  will  miss  me  the  more  for  that. 
I  think  you  will  miss  the  old  man.  But,  dear  lad,  do  not 
grudge  me  my  release.  For  I  am  weary,  weary,  and  heavy- 
laclen." 

"  Let  me  call  Dr.  Griffith,"  said  Hugo,  dashing  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  "  Perchance  he  might  ease  you." 

"  Nay,  wake  him  not,"  said  Bampfield;  "  he  watched  be- 
side me  last  night,  and  is  weary.  Besides,  he  could  do 
naught.  Hugo,  it  seems  to  me  something  strange  that, 
after  years  and  years  of  imprisonment  for  preaching  the 
G-ospel,  I  at  length  die  in  jail,  not  for  the  crime  of  preach- 
ing, but  for  refusing  to  take  an  oath.  A  strange  crime, 
meihinks." 

"  If  you  could  but  have  done  so  with  a  good  conscience !" 
said  Hugo,  who  never  had  been  able  to  understand  the  old 
man's  difficulty. 

"But  I  could  not/  said  Bampfield.  "For,  see  here!  I 
do  not, only  bind  my  soul  to  obey  the  king  that  now  is,  but 
his  heirs  and  successors  also.  And  I  know  not  wh?it  his 
successor  may  be;  for  aught  I  know  he  may  be  a  Popish 
successor.  Neither  can  I  swear  to  obey  laws  not,  yet  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  317 

being,  nor  to  be  obedient  to  a  Papist.  Therefore,  as  things 
now  are,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  take  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance. Come  life,  come  death,  the  Lord  assisting  me,  i 
will  never  take  it." 

"'Tis  true  Christ  saith,  'Swear  not  at  all,'  "  said  Hugo, 
musingly,  "and  bade  men  give  but  a  plain  yes  or  no." 

"Ay,  dear  lad,"  said  Bampfield,  his  face  lighting  up, 
"and  inethinks  I  see  a  day,  far  distant  as  yet,  when  His  rule 
shall  be  obeyed  in  this  land  that  calls  itself  His,  but  keeps 
not  His  word.  Oh  !  those  university  oaths !  so  many  and 
so  oft  multiplied  by  inconsiderate  students !  How  much 
guilt  has  been  contracted  thereby !" 

"  You  die,  then,  as  the  proto-martyr  in  this  cause.  You 
die  protesting  against  taking  of  oaths." 

Bampfield  smiled, 

"  I  have  trudged  along  through  evil  report  and  through 
good  report,  and,  through  the  help  of  Christ,  I  trust  I  may 
be  his  servant  and  witness  to  the  death.  There  is  one 
last  thing  I  would  ask  you." 

"Ask  anything,"  said  Hugo,  "and,  if  only  it  lie  in  my 
power,  I  will  do  it." 

"  Na}r,  I  know  not  how  that  will  be,"  said  Bampfield, 
tenderly.  "  I  would  in  no  way  force  thy  conscience.  Didst 
ever  take  the  sacrament,  lad  ?" 

"  Once  only,"  said  Hugo,  his  thoughts  flying  away  from 
the  dark  prison  to  the  sunny  church  at  Mondisfield. 

"Will  you  take  it  once  more  with  me  before  I  leave 
you  ?  When  the  sun  is  risen,  we  will  waken  Dr.  Griffith 
and  make  ready." 

But  Hugo  hesitated. 

"  He  would  not  think  me  fit,"  he  faltered. 

"  When  did  the  Saviour  of  mankind  ever  wait  for  men 
to  be  fit  for  Him  ?"  said  Bampfield,  earnestly.  "  He  came 
unto  His  own,  and  His  own  received  Him  net.  But  as 
many  as  received  Him  to  them  gave  He  power." 

"  But  Dr.  Griflith  will  object,"  said  Hugo. 

He  had  meant  Griffith  all  along,  but  was  too  reserved  to 
say  so. 

And  he  was  right.  Griffith  did  object.  Hugo  was  not 
of  their  communion  ;  he  had  made  no  special  profession 
of  devout  feeling  all  these  months,  had  not  added  his 
testimony  to  the  testimony  of  the  saints,  had  not  altogether 
lost  the  polite  art,  as  it  was  then  considered,  of  swearing, 
and,  worst  of  all,  had  not  hesitated  to  drink  with  that 
most  noisy  and  boisterous  Templer,  Eupert  Denham.  But 


318  IN   THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  dying  man  overruled  all  these  objections  with  one 
gentle  sentence. 

"  'Tis  my  last  wish,"  he  said,  faintly.  "  And  in  truth, 
good  Griffith,  I.  was  always  for  Christ's  open  housekeep- 
ing, since  I  had  inner  acquaintance  with  Him." 

And  so  when  the  sun  rose  the  three  drew  together,  for- 
getting their  differences  ;  and  when  the  brief,  solemn 
service  was  over,  Bampneld  bade  Hugo  rest. 

"  You  can  do  no  more  for  me,  dear  lad,"  he  said,  clasp- 
ing his  hand  closely.  "  I  have  no  other  wants.  For  here 
in  Newgate  prison  my  Lord  is  with  me  to  the  full  satis- 
faction of  my  whole  man." 

They  were  the  last  words  Hugo  ever  heard  him  speak. 
For,  when  some  hours  later,  he  awoke  from  sound  and 
dreamless  sleep,  and  looked  hastily  round,  he  saw  that  the 
death-angel  had  visited  the  cell.  The  sunshine  of  that 
Saturday  morning  streamed  in  through  the  prison  grating, 
and  fell  full  upon  the  peaceful  face,  the  face  from  which 
Death's  gentle  hand  had  smoothed  the  lines  and  furrows, 
leaving  only  the  radiant  smile  with  winch  Christ's  "under- 
shepherd  "  had  greeted  the  dawning  Sabbath. 

Bampneld  had  passed  into  the  unseen,  where  there  will 
be  no  dispute  as  to  whether  the  Lord's  Day  shall  be  kept 
on  the  Saturday  or  the  Sunday,  since  rest-days  will  be 
merged  in  the  eternal  "Work  without  weariness,  which  is 
true  rest. 

How  infinitely  little  seemed  now  the  disputes  and  con- 
troversies— but  how  priceless  the  patient  endurance,  the 
self-sacrifice,  the  willingness  to  suffer  for  what  he  had 
deemed  the  truth.  Who  could  doubt  that,  while  his  worn- 
out  body  lay  in  the  prison  cell,  he  himself  had  seen  the 
King  in  His  beauty — had  entered  into  the  joy  of  his 
Lord. 

They  buried  him  in  the  presence  of  a  vast  crowd  of  on- 
lookers, in  the  burial-ground  behind  the  Baptist  Chapel 
in  Glass  House  Yard,  Goswell  Street.  But,  although  many 
mourned  for  him,  none  mourned  so  truly  as  his  fellow- 
prisoners. 

Hugo  seemed  unable  to  recover  from  this  second  blow, 
and  in  truth  it  seemed  as  if  that  spring  he  was  to  be 
brought  into  perpetual  nearness  to  death.  One  day 
Thomas  Delaune  was  brought  to  the  cell,  Scroop  having 
assigned  him  Bampfield's  vacant  place.  He  came,  a  broken- 
down,  broken-hearted  man.  His  babe  was  dead,  his  wife 
was  dead,  he  himself  looked  as  though  his  days  were 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  319 

numbered,  while  little  Tom,  so  bonny  and  rosy  a  few 
months  before,  was  now  a  little  ghost  of  a  child,  seldom 
complaining,  seldom  even  speaking,  but  slowly  and  silent- 
ly fading  away.  That  cruel  winter  in  Newgate  had  much 
to  answer  for. 

The  new-comers  roused  Hugo  from  his  dull  apathy.  He 
listened  to  poor  Delaune's  complaints,  he  listened  a  hun- 
dred times  to  his  favorite  assertion  that  "  Newgate  was  a 
severe  kind  of  logic,  and  would  probably  dispute  him  out 
the  world."  He  listened  to  all  the  arguments  of  the  luck- 
less pamphlet  which  had  cost  the  writer  so  dear;  and  the 
poor,  unhappy  man  learned  to  love  him  and  to  lean  on 
him,  even  though  he  showed  a  hopeless  inaptitude  for 
theological  discussions. 

Mary  came  of  ten  with  her  uncle  to  visit  them,  and  she 
did  her  best  for  the  little  boy,  who  lingered  on  until  the' 
spring.  The  father,  though  refusing  to  let  the  child  go, 
was  too  ill  himself  to  attend  to  it,  Mary  did  the  nursing  by 
day  and  Hugo  by  night. 

One  morning  Tom  looked  up  languidly  from  the  little 
bed  which  they  had  made  for  him. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  out  of  doors,"  he  said,  faintly. 

"  Could  you  not  hold  him  up  to  the  window  ?"  said 
Mary.  "  I  do  not  think  the  air  could  hurt  him." 

And  Hugo  held  him  high  up  in  his  arms  so  that  the  lit- 
tle fellow  could  peer  out  through  the  bars. 

He  saw  the  sun  shining  brightly,  he  saw  the  trees  around 
Christ's  Hospital,  and  heard  the  sound  of  the  boys  at  their 
play. 

*l  You  said  I  couldn't  come  too  when  you  went  to  Die," 
he  said,  faintly,  as  they  laid  him  once  more  in  bed.  "  But 
I  am  going  now.  Die  is  better  than  prison  ;  I  dreamed  in 
the  night  all  about  it,  and  there  are  green  trees,  and  chil- 
dren that  sing,  and  no  bars  between — no  hard,  cold  bars." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  window  until,  to  his  dazzled  sight, 
the  light  overpowered  the  darkness,  and  where  the  grat- 
ing had  been  was  only  a  golden  glory.  Then,  tired  with 
the  brightness,  his  eyes  closed,  and  gradually  unconscious- 
ness crept  over  him,  and  thus  death  took  him  painlessly 
away  from  Newgate  to  the  land  where  there  are  "  no  bars 
between." 

Delaune  did  not  long  survive  his  child.  Father,  mother, 
and  the  two  poor  little  children  all  met  their  deaths  because 
it  was  deemed  a  crime  to  put  forth  a  pamphlet  which  stated 
the  views  of  a  Nonconformist.  Truly  the  liberty  of  the 


320  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

press  has  not  been  secured  to  Englishmen  -without  tears  and 
blood. 

At  length  Hugo  was  once  more  in  solitary  confinement. 
For  Griffith — honest,  worthy,  narrow  Dr.  Griffith — was 
pardoned,  and  once  more  took  his  place  among  free  men. 
They  parted  in  all  kindness,  and  Hugo's  congratulations 
were  quite  sincere.  But  although,  had  they  lived  together 
for  years,  they  could  never  have  been  friends,  he  missed 
the  old  doctor  sorely.  Solitude  was  terrible,  even  when 
for  part  of  the  day  ^Jeremiah  was  allowed  to  be  with  him, 
and  his  friends  to  visit  him.  But  he  had  that  wretched 
feeling  of  being  left  behind  which  is  of  all  things  the  most 
dreary.  The  king  had  pardoned  Griffith,  but  he  would  not 
pardon  him,  and  even  Death,  who  had  released  all  the  others, 
refused  to  come  to  his  aid.  In  vain  Mary  aud  Kupert  did 
their  best  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  His  attacks  of  ague  re- 
turned, he  lost  hope,  enduring,  indeed,  bravely  and 
patiently,  but  no  longer  dreaming  of  escape,  of  liberty,  and 
of  Joyce. 

One  day  Mary,  returning  home,  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"  He  will  die,  aunt,"  she  sobbed,  "  he  will  die  if  he  stays 
there  much  longer.  Oh  I  what  can  be  done  ?  How  may 
we  save  him  ?" 

"  My  dear  niece,  I  see  no  way  of  saving  him,"  said  Lady 
Denham,  sadly.  "  We  can  but  do  our  best  to  lighten  his 
imprisonment." 

That  evening  they  went  to  the  theatre.  The  play  was  "  Bo- 
rneo and  Juliet,"  the  last  that  Mary  would  have  chosen  to  wit- 
ness; but,  although  sad-hearted  and  weary,  she  would  not 
stay  at  home,  for  it  wa^  against  her  own  rule  to  allow  her 
attendance  on  Hugo  in  any  way  to  interfere  with  her  home 
life.  She  still  went  with  her  aunt  to  receptions  and  balls,  she 
danced  and  talked,  despite  her  heavy  heart,  and  lived  down 
the  gossip  which  inevitably  arose  about  her  friendship  for 
young  Mr.  Wharncliffe.  She  felt  herself  the  custodian  of 
his  honor,  and  this  gave  her  strength  to  meet  banter  with 
indifference,  teasing  with  a  smile,  and  searching  questions 
about  Hugo  with  never  a  blush.  To  have  shut  herself  up 
at  home  would  have  been  to  give  rise  to  scandal;  she 
bravely  went  into  society  almost  every  evening,  as  much 
for  Hugo's  sake  as  she  went  to  Newgate  in  the  morning. 

Suddenly,  as  the  play  passed  before  her  tired  eyes,  a 
thought  flashed  into  her  mind.  The  Friar  was  speaking 
with  Juliet,  and  something  in  his  manner  startled  her  into 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  321 

sudden  attention,  though  she  had  not   noted  what    had 
passed  just  before. 

"Hold,  daughter;  I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope, 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desparate  which  we  would  prevent." 

She  had  never  read  or  seen  this  play  before,  Shakespeare 
was  emphatically  not  the  poet  of  the  Kestoration,  and  his 
plays  were  but  seldom  acted.  Breathlessly  she  watched 
the  gift  of  the  magic  vial,  the  contents  of  which  were  to 
make  Juliet  look  as  one  dead.  Eagerly  she  looked  at  the 
fair  corpse  as  it  was  carried  forth  to  the  grave.  After  all,  it 
was  not  so  hard  to  counterfeit  death.  And  death  might  be 
the  deliverer.  Death,  apparently,  was  the  only  deliverer 
from  Newgate.  All  that  night  she  lay  awake  in  a  fever  of 
excitement,  as  gradually  the  details  of  the  escape  shaped 
themselves  more  and  more  clearly  in  her  mind.  The  next 
morning  she  went  straight  to  her  uncle,  for  without  his  co- 
operation she  saw  that  nothing  could  be  done,  but  she  went 
hopefully,  for  she  knew  that  he  had  always  refused  to  see 
any  political  principle  involved  in  Hugo's  imprisonment; 
she  knew  that  he  was  extremely  fond  of  him  and  would 
sacrifice  almost  anything  to  save  him.  The  uncle  and  niece 
were  closeted  together  for  more  than  an  hour.  Later  in 
the  day  they  went  together  to  Newgate. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVI. 

HOPES  AND   FEAB9. 

I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love: 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

SHAKESPEABE. 

"  You  have  been  growing  ever  less  hopeful  of  late,"  said 
Mary,  reproachfully. 

"For  what  can  I  hope  ?"  said  Hugo,  wearily.  To  dream 
of  escape  is  idle;  every  day  I  grow  weaker.  Do  you  know 
that  it  has  come  to  this,  I  can  no  longer  climb  up  to  the 
grating.  The  men  who  saw  their  way  through  iron  and 
gnaw  their  way  through  stone  are  men  strong  of  limb, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

sinewy  and  vigorous;  they  have  not  been  weakened  by  tor- 
ture and  starvation,  and  damp  and  cold;  they  are  not  liable 
to  be  overtaken  every  other  day  by  the  ague,  or  if  so  then 
they  must  be  men  of  tougher  nature.  It  is  useless  to  talk 
to  me  of  escape.  There  is  only  one  deliverer  from  Newgate, 
and  he  comes  to  all  prisoners  sooner  or  later,  therefore  he 
must  some  day  come  to  me.0 

There  was  unusual  bitterness  in  his  tone.  He  knew  that 
he  was  losing  strength  rapidly,  and  the  consciousness 
humiliated  him. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mary,  "  it  doth  seem  that  death  is  the 
only  deliverer.  Have  there  been  many  deaths  lately  ?" 

"Yes,  the  hard  winter  has  done  its  work;  the  young  and 
the  old  died  in  the  frost,  the  others  lingered  longer,  but 
Scroop  tells  me  there  are  deaths  daily  in  the  common 
wards." 

"  Then  perhaps  they  are  not  very  particular  as  to  the 
disposal  of  the  dead,"  said  Sir  William. 

"  Nay,  the  great  thing  is  to  hustle  forth  the  corpse  that 
its  space  may  be  taken  by  some  other  poor  wretch." 

"  Scroop  is  friendly  to  you,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  hath  ever  been  that.     I  don't  know  why." 

"  Supposing  you  were  to  follow  the  fair  Juliet's  exam- 
ple," said  Sir  William,  "  do  you  think  Scroop  would,  if 
admitted  into  the  secret,  put  you  himself  into  the  coffin, 
and  see  that  you  were  borne  to  my  house  ?" 

Hugo  started  to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  alarm,  which  was  nevertheless  tinged  with  a  wild 
hope. 

"  Let  us  talk  the  matter  over  quietly,"  said  Sir  William, 
lowering  his  voice.  "  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  not 
try  the  plan,  and  bring  it  to  a  more  successful  issue  than 
the  good  folks  at  Verona.  The  question  is,  do  we  do  well 
to  risk  admitting  Scroop  to  the  secret.  To  ask  his  help  is 
to  betray  ourselves." 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  without  him,"  said  Hugo.  "  He 
is  keen  as  any  hawk  ;  that  is  why  the  governor  trusts  him 
with  so  much.  But  yet  I  know  not  whether  he  would  risk 
so  much  out  of  love  for  me.  Why,  indeed,  should  any 
one  ?  why  should  you  run  so  grave  a  danger  for  the  sake 
of  one  even  of  your  own  kin  ?  Were  I  discovered  think 
how  grave  the  results  might  be  for  yourself.  Nay,  I  can- 
not permit  it.  You  must  not  incur  so  great  a  risk  for  me." 

"  Why,  my  dear  boy,  do  you  not  know  that  but  a  few 
ays  since  that  vile  Captain  Clifford  found  friends  willing 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  823 

to  rescue  him  from  the  Meet.  If  they  were  willing  to 
run  the  risk  for  such  a  one,  do  you  think  we  shall  not  be 
willing  to  do  as  much  for  you  ?  And  in  good  time  here 
comes  your  jailer.  We  will  withdraw,  and  you  shall  tell 
him  as  much  as  you  think  fit." 

Now,  the  jailer  had  really  learned  to  love  Hugo,  and 
when,  bit  by  bit,  the  plan  of  escape  was  intrusted  to  him, 
it  was  no  bribe  which  made  him  consent  to  lend  his  help. 
He  knew  that,  if  he  refused,  Hugo  would  remain  a  few 
months  longer  in  Newgate  and  would  then  inevitably  die. 
He  saw  no  harm  whatever  in  giving  him  a  false  certificate 
of  death  ;  nay,  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight  at  the 
prospect  of  a  little  plot  within  the  jail,  a  little  excitement 
in  the  midst  of  his  dreary  life  of  routine  work.  As  to  any 
drug,  he  said  there  was  no  necessity  for  it  whatever.  No 
one  would  come  to  look  at  the  prisoner.  He  should  duly 
nail  him  up  in  his  coffin,  report  his  death  to  the  governor, 
and  have  his  body  delivered  to  his  friends. 

When  this  was  arranged,  Sir  Wiliiam,  Mary,  and  old 
Jeremiah  having  joined  them  in  the  cell  and  discussed  all 
the  details  with  Scroop,  it  only  remained  to  fix  the  time  of 
the  escape.  Hugo,  hardly  able  to  stand,  so  great  was  his 
excitement,  looked  eagerly  from  one  to  the  other,  knowing 
that  he  must  leave  the  day  to  them,  and  yet  so  eager  to 
seize  that  very  instant  that  he  hardly  knew  how  he  should 
endure  any  delay.  Breathlessly  he  listened  to  Sir  William's 
thoughtful,  cautious  arguments,  which,  to  his  satisfaction, 
ended  with  the  remark, 

"  After  all,  delays  are  dangerous — the  sooner  the  plot  is 
carried  through  the  less  risk  attaches  to  it.  When  are  you 
liable  to  your  nexfr  attack  of  ague  ?" 

"  This  very  day,"  groaned  Hugo,  who  had  forgotten  his 
old  enemy. 

"  Nay,  do  not  be  disheartened,  that  will  exactly  serve 
our  turn,"  said  Sir  William.  "  We  shall  let  fall  that  you 
are  not  long  for  this  world,  Scroop  will  tell  the  governor 
that  there  is  no  hope  for  you,  which  in  truth  will  be  the 
case  if  you  stay  here  much  longer.  Then  in  the  night  you 
will  die;  next  evening  we  shall  send  a  coffin  for  your  re- 
mains, with  bearers  who  can  be  trusted ;  Jeremiah  would 
naturally  be  one,  my  butler  another;  Eupert  must  be  in- 
trusted with  our  secret,  so  he  might  figure  as  a  third,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  Colonel  Sidney's  man,  Ducasse,  would  be 
a  willing  and  safe  man  for  the  fourth.  How  say  you,  Mr. 
Jailer,  will  that  be  well  ?" 


324  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Your  honor  could  not  have  planned  it  Letter,"  said 
Scroop,  taking  grim  delight  in  all  the  arrangements. 

"  Well,  then,  do  you  second  our  efforts  faithfully,  and  if 
all  is  brought  to  a  happy  issue,  then  come  to  my  house 
this  day  sennight,  and  I  will  give  you  twenty  golden 
guineas." 

Scroop's  little  eyes  twinkled.  He  loved  gold.  Never- 
theless he  would  have  risked  all  only  for  Hugo's  sake. 

"  There's  one  thing  more,  sir,"  said  the  jailer,  just  as  the 
visitors  were  preparing  to  leave.  "  The  coffin,  sir;  you 
must  measure  Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

Spite  of  themselves  they  all  laughed,  as  Hugo  lay  down 
on  the  bed  to  be  measured,  while  alive,  for  his  coffin.  Nor 
was  the  task  easy  since  they  had  no  proper  implements, 
and  were  only  too  well  aware  that  any  error  now  might 
prove  the  destruction  of  their  hopes.  In  the  end  Mary 
sacrificed  the  lace  edging  of  her  mantle,  tore  it  off  in  long 
strips  and  with  infinite  care  took  those  dread  measure- 
ments. Then,  tremulously  winding  up  the  lace,  she 
glanced  round  the  little  room  which  had  grown  so  fa- 
miliar to  her.  If  all  went  well  this  was  the  last  time  she 
should  ever  enter  it.  There  was  no  denying  that,  spite  of 
anxiety  and  sorrow,  those  months  of  attendance  on  Hugo 
had  been  very  sweet;  she  knew  now  that  they  were  over, 
she  knew  that  he  would  have  to  fly  the  country,  and  that 
in  all  probability  she  should  never  look  on  him  again. 
For  a  moment  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  even  in  the 
fulfillment  of  her  own  scheme,  and  in  the  prospect  of  'the 
consummation  of  her  hopes — after  all,  she  was  but  a 
woman.  But,  driving  back  her  tears,  she  looked  at  Hugo. 
There  was  new  life  in  his  face,  new  hope,  eager  and  raptu- 
ous  expectation.  That  look  was  her  reward.  She  bore  it 
with  her  all  the  day;  having  learned  to  weep  with  those 
that  wept,  she  now  learned  to  rejoice  with  those  that  re- 
joiced. 

In  the  meantime  Hugo,  almost  beside  himself  with  the 
thought  of  all  the  possibilities  of  the  next  few  hours, 
made  such  preparations  as  he  could  for  the  escape.  There 
was  very  little  to  be  done.  He  begged  Jeremiah  to  see 
that  his  three  beloved  books  were  placed  with  him  in  the 
coffin,  then,  restlessly  pacing  the  cell,  began  to  discuss  the 
future  with  the  old  man. 

"I  shall  have  to  leave  London  at  once,  Jerry,"  he  said; 
"I  shall  have,  of  course,  to  leave  England,  but  first  I  must 
down  to  Suffolk  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  place.  In  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  325 

meantime  what  will  become  of  you  ?    How  am  I  ever  to 
reward  all  that  you  have  done  for  me?" 

"  By  letting  me  be  with  you,  lad,"  said  Jeremiah  ;  "  I 
want  no  reward  but  that,  and  I  have  laid  by  enough  to 
serve  us  both  for  a  while." 

Hugo  wrung  his  hand. 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  he  said,  gratefully,  "  when  once 
we  are  safe  in  Holland  I  will  work  for  the  two  of  us.  See, 
Jerry,  if  you  will  indeed  share  my  fortunes,  how  would  it 
be  if  you  went  on  to  Harwich,  then  I  will  meet  you  there 
when  I  have  kept  my  promise  and  seen  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe  and — and  his  family." 

"  There  is  one  thing  we  must  have  a  care  of,"  said  Jere- 
miah, gravely.  "  No  rumor  of  your  death  must  reach  Mr. 
Randolph,  else  mayhap  he  may  be  claiming  your  body  for 
burial." 

Hugo  shuddered. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "  And  yet  me- 
thinks  there  is  no  fear.  He  hath  disowned  me  in  life,  why 
should  he  claim  me  in  death?" 

No  more  was  said  just  then,  for  ere  long  Hugo  fell  into 
a  violent  shivering  fit,  and  was  forced  to  go  through  all  the 
weary  stages  of  his  fever,  ever  with  the  thought  of  his  es- 
cape floating  through  his  mind.  Night  drew  on,  Jeremiah 
was  obliged  to  go,  and  he  bent  down  and  embraced  his 
master  as  he  heard  the  jailer  unlock  the  door,  the  signal 
that  his  time  was  up. 

"  For  the  last  time,  dear  lad,  the  last  time."  he  said, 
fervently.  "  God  have  you  in  his  keeping." 

"  Last  time,"  said  a  harsh  voice  behind  him.  "  Why  for 
the  last  time,  pray?" 

The  old  Cromwellian  was  not  to  be  startled,  though  in 
mortal  terror,  he  rose  quietly,  and  in  the  dimly  lighted  cell 
turned  to  confront  the  speaker.  He  had  made  sure  that  it 
was  Scroop  who  had  unlocked  the  door.  Scroop  had  al- 
ways come  to  him  before  at  that  time  ;  by  what  evil  chance 
had  some  other  come  on  this  night  of  all  others !  He 
turned  and  confronted  the  governor  of  Newgate. 

"  Come  now,  explain  yourself,  what  is  this  about  last 
times?" 

"  Sir,  yonder  lies  the  explanation,"  said  Jeremiah,  waving 
his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  bed. 

The  governor  bent  down  nearer  to  the  patient  and  saw 
that  he  was  in  a  raging  fever  ;  he  touched  the  burning 
brow  and  recoiled. 


326  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  'Tis  but  the  ague,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "  An  I  remem- 
ber right,  the  prisoner  hath  suffered  from  it  this  long 
time." 

"  He  will  not  suffer  much  longer,  the  Lord  be  praised," 
said  Jeremiah.  "  Oh,  sir,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  be  with 
my  master  this  night.  Load  me  with  fetters,  an  you  will, 
but  let  me  be  with  him  to  the  end." 

"  Damnation  take  your  impudence,"  said  the  governor, 
harshly.  "  Do  you  think  men  are  to  be  pampered  like 
princes  here  in  jail?  Be  off  with  you!  The  prisoner  is  no 
more  dying  than  I  am;  he'll  outlive  you,  you  grumbling 
graybeard,  that  I  dare  swear." 

Jeremiah  said  no  more  but  once  more  embraced  the 
prisoner  and  went  forth  with  bowed  head. 

Hugo  was  vaguely  aware  that  the  governor  was  present; 
he  fancied  that  somehow  their  plans  were  in  great  danger, 
but  his  fevered  brain  had  not  seen  the  true  bearings  of 
the  case,  he  did  not  know  that  Jeremiah  had  adroitly 
made  the  most  of  his  illness,  and  had  really  impressed  the 
governor  with  the  idea  that  he  was  dying. 

Presently  Scroop  entered.  Hugo  was  aware  that  he  was 
talking  to  the  governor.  He  began  to  tremble.  Would 
the  man  betray  them  ?  What  was  this  he  was  saying  ?  Oh, 
that  he  were  not  in  this  distorting  fever,  which  would  not 
let  him  see  or  hear  things  as  they  really  were ! 

"  How  now,  Scroop,  is  this  gentleman  really  dying?  His 
man  swears  he'll  not  outlast  the  night.  In  that  case,  maybe 
we  ought  to  let  his  brother  have  due  notice.  Methinks  they 
would  try  to  force  evidence  from  him  once  more." 

"  Oh,  he'll  outlast  the  night,  sir,"  said  Scroop,  confidently. 
"  I  don't  think  there's  any  call  to  send  at  this  hour." 

After  that  the  governor  went  away,  and  Scroop  having 
placed  some  water  beside  the  patient,  locked  him  up  for  the 
night. 

It  was  a  terrible  night  for  Hugo,  for  when  at  length  the 
fever-stage  passed,  he  was  left  to  an  agony  of  fear  and  ap- 
prehension, vaguely  remembering  scraps  of  the  conversa- 
tion that  had  passed  in  the  cell,  and  seeing  as  he  had  never 
seen  before  the  thousand  risks  which  lay  before  him. 

Had  Scroop  been  faithful  ?  He  could  not  feel  sure.  Had 
the  governor  suspected  aught?  He  could  not  tell.  Would 
they  indeed  send  word  to  Randolph  ?  And  would  his  broth- 
er claim  his  body,  and  perhaps  bury  it  before  the  others 
could  interfere  ?  Horrible  visions  rose  before  him  in  the 
darkness.  He  was  buried  alive;  he  was  discovered  before  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  327 

coffin  was  nailed  down,  and  all  his  friends  suffered  for  their 
attempts  to  help  him.  He  was  permitted  to  escape,  but 
was  overtaken  on  the  Newmarket  Road  by  Randolph.  Or 
again,  all  was  checked  at  the  outset,  and  he  remained  in 
that  cell,  deserted  by  all  men,  until  he  was  old  and  gray- 
headed. 

His  brain  reeled,  he  groaned  aloud  in  the  anguish  of 
his  imaginings.  And  then  in  the  dark  cell  there  came  to 
him  the  echoes  of  a  woman's  voice,  the  voice  which  day  by 
day  had  spoken  words  of  comfort  to  him.  He  remembered 
how  once  before,  in  despair,  those  words  had  come  to  his 
aid,  "Bid  Hope  throw  her  rainbow  arch  over  the  future 
you  paint  so  black." 

It  was  as  if  an  angel  had  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer.  He 
turned  from  the  thoughts  of  terror  and  darkness  and 
thought  of  Joyce.  Once  more  that  vision  rose  before  him 
of  Joyce  beneath  the  elm-trees  at  the  gate,  waiting  to  bid 
some  one  welcome.  He  had  said  in  his  letter  that  she 
welcomed  her  father  ;  what  if  instead  it  was  her  lover  for 
whom  she  waited !  His  very  rapture  made  lam  calm,  for 
how  much — how  much  depended  on  his  self-control,  on  his 
wisdom  ?  Conscious  of  this,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and 
prayed  in  the  words  of  that  collect  which  was  most  fami- 
liar to  him  for  the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such  things 
as  be  rightful. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  sleeping  peacefully,  and  for 
the  last  time  the  moonlight  streamed  in  through  the 
grated  window  and  lit  up  his  quiet  face.  Just  so  had  it 
fallen  months  before  upon  him  on  the  night  of  his  first 
admission  to  Newgate.  Then  Bampfield  had  knelt  beside 
him  and  prayed  ;  perchance  even  now  he  did  the  same 
unseen  ;  perchance  he  was  able  to  see  that  there  was  no 
need  since  the  proof  that  his  prayers  had  been  answered 
lay  in  the  wonderful  change  which  in  these  months  had 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  sleeper. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Scroop,  cheerfully,  as  he  entered  the 
cell  next  morning.  "  You  are  now  dead,  sir.  As  good 
luck  will  have  it,  the  governor  will  be  out  till  evening.  I 
shall  mention  to  him  just  as  he  leaves  that  you  are  dead, 
and  that  your  friends  have  begged  your  body  for  burial. 
No  one  can  now  enter  the  cell  but  me  ;  you  have  nothing 
to  fear,  but  have  only  to  keep  quiet.  I  have  brought  you 
what  food  I  was  able  to  bring  without  being  observed,  for 
the  daily  dole  will  not  be  brought  to  a  corpse." 

"  All  lies  now  in  your  Jiands,"  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 


328  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  But  there,  I  trust  you,  Scroop — I  have  good   reason  to 
trust  you." 

The  jailer  gave  an  inscrutable  smile,  and  went  away 
without  another  word,  locking  the  door  behind  him.  He 
went  straight  to  the  governor's  house.  That  worthy  had 
business  at  Edmonton,  and  was  just  preparing  to  ride 
thither. 

"  How  now,  Scroop  ?  I  cannot  see  to  business,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Confound  you  I  can't  you  see  I'm  starting  on  a 
journey." 

"  Tis  naught,  your  honor,"  said  Scroop,  deferentially.  "  I 
will  not  detain  your  honor.  I  did  but  just  bring  you  word 
that  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe  is  dead.  He  must  have  died 
i'  the  night,  sir;  for  this  morning,  going  into  his  cell  as 
usual,  I  found  him  cold  as  any  stone.  'Tis  passing  strange 
for  I  could  have  sworn  upon  oath  last  night  that  he'd  have 
been  spared  to  as  many  a  day  to  come.  But  'tis  ever  the 
way,  sir.  Them  as  is  worth  plucking  dies  first,  and  such 
as  be  not  worth  a  penny  lasts  till  kingdom  come." 
The  governor  swore  a  deep  oath. 

"  There  goes  a  good  slice  of  my  income,"  he  said,  resent- 
fully. "  Sir  William  Denham  is  soft  as  to  the  heart  and 
heavy  as  to  the  purse.  I  doubt  Mr.  Wharncliffe  will  never 
know  how  well  his  friends  have  lined  my  pockets.  Do  they 
know  of  his  death  ?" 

"Ay,  sir;  and  they  wish  him  to  be  brought  away  for 
burial,  an  you  will  permit." 

"  Why,  confound  them!  they  are  welcome  to  the  corpse ! 
An  they  like  to  save  us  the  trouble  of  putting  it  in  the 
earth,  so  much  the  better.  Give  me  living  bodies  to  grow 
rich  on,  not  dead  ones.  I'll  have  a  look  at  the  corpse  to- 
morrow; it  is  too  late  now.  I  can  not  be  delayed." 

Scroop  went  away  well  satisfied.  All  promised  well;  he 
was  not  afraid  for  the  result.  He  went  about  all  day  talk- 
ing to  his  brother-jailers  of  the  good  source  of  income 
which  he  had  lost.  He  jested  about  the  garnish  which  he 
had  received  from  Hugo.  He  paid  up  a  bet  which  he  had 
made  on  the  previous  night  of  ten  to  one  on  Hugo's  recov- 
ery. And  thus  the  day  passed — a  day  of  suspense  to  all 
the  parties  concerned,  and  to  the  prisoner  almost  unendur- 
able. At  length  the  daylight  faded,  and  as  darkness  once 
more  fell  upon  the  gloomy  little  room  he  knew  that  the 
crisis  of  his  fate  drew  near.  By  and  by  there  were  steps 
without,  and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock.  He  lay  motion- 
less on  the  bed  with  closed  eyes.  Supposing  it  should  not 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  329 

be  Scroop?  He  trembled,  and  knew  that  he  trembled;  it 
was  no  easy  thing  to  enact  death.  Some  one  came  and  bent 
over  him,  then  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Corpses  must  lie  still,  young  gentleman,"  exclaimed 
Scroop,  in  a  low  voice.  "  An  you  tremble  like  that,  you'll 
make  the  very  coffin  shake." 

Hugo  sat  up  with  a  gasp  of  relief. 

"  You  gave  me  a  terrible  fright,"  he  said,  breathlessly. 
"  Ah,  it  is  come  then  !" 

He  looked  with  rapture  at  the  grim,  black  coffin  which 
was  to  prove  his  salvation.  Scroop  went  into  silent  con- 
vulsions of  laughter. 

"  'Tis  not  often  one  of  your  sort  is  so  welcome  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, apostrophizing  the  coffin  with  a  little  patronizing 
caress.  "  Sounds  as  if  there  was  plenty  of  room,  doesn't 
it?"  as  the  hollow  lid  resounded  to  his  flippant  pat. 
"  Well,  sir,  in  with  you.  The  sooner  the  better,  for  your 
friends  wait  at  the  gate." 

Hugo  grasped  the  jailer's  rough  hand,  thanking  him  fer- 
vently for  all  he  had  done  for  him,  but  Scroop  cut  his  fare- 
wells short,  and,  brushing  a  tear  from  his  eye,  once  more 
bade  him  make  no  delay. 

Then,  with  a  slight  shiver,  Hugo  lay  down  in  the  narrow 
coffin;  Scroop,  at  his  request,  laid  the  three  books  beside 
him,  disposed  the  woolen  shroud  so  that  it  should  not 
cover  his  mouth,  and  then  closed  the  lid.  Hugo  gasped 
for  breath.  There  were  air-holes  purposely  pierced  for 
him.  He  knew  that  he  should  not  be  suffocated,  but  yet 
the  darkness  and  closeness  were  terrible.  Then  came  the 
screwing  down  of  the  lid,  a  horrible  grating  sound  close 
to  his  head;  it  was  ghastly!  It  came  again  at  his  feet,  and 
again  on  either  side  of  him;  the  process  seemed  endless. 
At  length  came  a  pause.  Scroop  threw  down  his  imple- 
ments on  the  floor,  and,  unlocking  the  door,  went  out. 
Hugo  guessed  that  he  had  gone  to  summon  the  bearers. 
He  began  to  grow  calmer;  all  seemed  going  so  smoothly. 
Surely  now  there  was  nothing  to  fear ! 

All  at  once  his  heart  began  to  beat  wildly,  to  thump 
against  his  breast  so  violently  that  he  thought  it  must  be 
,-mdible  all  over  the  cell.  For  steps  had  drawn  near,  foot- 
steps too  light  for  Scroop's  heavy,  shuffling  tread. 

"  The  devil !  what  have  we  here !  Why,  nailed  up  al- 
ready !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  governor  of  Newgate,  and  through 
the  air-holes  Hugo  could  see  that  a  light  was  held  close  to 


330  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

his  coffin.  There  was  a  terrible  pause.  Would  the  fellow 
hear  the  beating  of  his  heart  ?  Could  he  keep  rigidly  still 
when  he  was  in  such  an  agony  of  fright  ?  There  came  the 
tramp  of  feet  in  the  corridor.  All  his  friends  .were  coming, 
Kupert,  Jeremiah,  Ducasse,  and  Sir  William's  old  butler 
What  would  happen  to  them,  he  wondered,  should  the 
trick  be  discovered.  The  governor  stepped  to  the  door. 

"  Why,  how  now,  Scroop,  nailed  the  young  fellow  up 
already  ?  I  said  I  should  come  and  look  at  him  on  the 
morrow  ?" 

"  'Tis  true,  your  honor,"  said  Scroop,  humbly.  "  But  Sir 
William  Denham  sent  his  men,  and  begged  the  body  to- 
night, and  as  they'd  brought  the  coffin  I  thought  they 
might  as  well  take  the  body,  and  free  the  room,  which 
your  honor  remembers  is  a  valuable  one." 

"  Well,  well,  'tis  no  great  matter.  Where  are  his  irons  ? 
He  wore  them  an  I  mistake  not." 

"  But  a  light  pair,  your  honor,  and,  truth  to  tell,  in  the 
haste  of  the  moment  I  forgot  to  file  them  off.  But 
the  corpse  is  not  laid  out,  and  no  doubt  Sir  William's 
servant  will  restore  the  shackles,  since  they  must  open  the 
coffin." 

"  A  pest  on  your  laziness !  open  the  coffin  now  and  take 
them  off  here.  Don't  you  know  the  shackles  are  the  prop- 
erty of  the  jail  ?  I've  lost  enough  in  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  and 
will  not  lose  the  fetters  with  him  into  the  bargain." 

Scroop,  in  a  terrible  fright,  went  to  get  a  file  ;  he  saw 
that  he  had  made  a  fearful  mistake  ;  he  cursed  his  folly. 
Why  had  he  not  said  that  he  had  taken  the  irons  off?  Why 
had  he  not  thought  of  this  before  ?  Were  all  his  plans  to 
be  baffled  ?  Was  Hugo  to  be  condemned  to  perpetual 
imprisonment  for  the  sake  of  a  pair  of  shackles  ?  He  was 
so  paralyzed  by  this  unforseen  occurrence  that  his  wits 
forsook  him,  he  could  think  of  no  fresh  plan.  In  dogged 
despair  he  brought  a  file,  and  then  slowly  began  to 
unscrew  the  lid  of  the  coffin. 

Again  that  horrible  grating  sound.  Hugo  lay  still  in  si- 
lent agony;  his  only  hope  now  was  in  his  being  able  to 
feign  death.  The  last  screw  was  at  length  removed,  the 
lid  was  raised,  a  rush  of  fresh  air  and  red  light  greeted 
him  as  he  lay  there  with  closed  eyes,  the  voices  which  be- 
fore had  sounded  thick  and  muffled  now  beat  loud  and 
clear  upon  his  ears. 

Scroop,  seizing  the  light,  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
coffin  and  began  to  file  away  with  all  his  might  at  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  331 

shackles,  Hugo  letting  bis  leg  lie  limply  in  his  hold,  and 
relieved  to  feel  that  his  face  must  be  in  shadow.  The  gov- 
ernor glanced  at  him. 

"  He  was  a  pretty  fellow  enough,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
reckon  some  maid  will  have  a  sore  heart  for  him.  That 
fair  Mistress  Denham  loved  him,  I  dare  swear.  How  now, 
Scroop,  burying  his  books  with  him  ?" 

"  I  thought  mayhap  his  friends  would  like  to  have  them, 
sir,"  said  the  jailer. 

"  But  be  like  I  should  care  to  have  them.  You  are  over- 
partial  to  this  young  gentleman  and  his  friends,  and  would 
rob  me  of  my  dues." 

He  stooped  and  took  up  the  c<  Eepublic  of  Plato,"  has- 
tily glancing  through  the  contents.  As  he  did  so  the  oak- 
leaf  which  Algernon  Sidney  had  placed  in  the  book  on 
that  spring  day  in  Pensiiurst  Park  fluttered  out  from  be- 
tween the  pages  and  fell  exactly  on  Hugo's  mouth.  He 
knew  what  it  must  be,  he  could  feel  the  leaf  gently  mov- 
ing with  every  breath  he  drew ;  in  another  instant  the 
governor  must  notice  it. 

That  was  the  last  straw  !  he  had  endured  much,  but  this 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  fainted  away. 

"  Well,  well/5  said  the  governor,  "  he  seems  to  have  but 
a  dry  library.  I  care  not  for  it.  His  friends  are  welcome, 
to  such  books  as  those." 

He  placed  them  in  the  coffin,  and  bent  down  for  a  last 
look  at  the  corpse,  removing  the  oak-leaf  from  its  face. 
As  he  did  so  his  hand  came  into  contact  with  the  cheek  ; 
it  was  so  icy  that  he  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  He  was  too  hot  last  night,  and  i'  faith !  now  he's  too 
cold  by  half  I"  he  remarked,  with  an  uneasy  laugh.  He 
felt  vaguely  sorry  for  the  young  life  cut  off ;  he  wished 
that  Hugo  had  lived  longer  and  had  put  more  golden 
guineas  into  his  pockets. 

When  Hugo  came  to  himself  all  was  dark  once  more, 
dark  and  close.  He  gasped  for  breath,  and  involuntarily 
raised  his  hand,  groping  in  the  darkness.  His  fingers 
speedily  came  into  contact  with  the  coffin-lid,  and  this  re- 
called to  him  all  that  had  passed.  Had  he  indeed  be- 
trayed himself?  had  the  governor  seen  that  he  breathed? 
The  oak-leaf  was  no  longer  on  his  mouth — that  was  certain; 
the  lid  was  screwed  down  again,  that  also  was  certain. 
But  what  if  the  governor  bad  insisted  on  his  being  buried 
in  the  prison  grave-yard?  What  if  Scroop,  to  save  himself, 
should  really  allow  him  to  be  buried  alive?  The  cold  sweat 


332  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

rose  on  his  forehead  at  the  thought ;  it  was  all  he  could 
do  not  to  scream  aloud,  to  shout  to  all  the  world  that  he 
was  alive,  when  he  felt  his  coffin  raised,  raised  staggeringly 
on  men's  shoulders,  to  be  borne — whither  ? 

The  horrible,  swaying  motion,  the  lurching  first  to  one 
side,  then  to  the  other,  as  he  was  lifted  up,  made  him  turn 
faint  once  more.  When  he  again  came  to  himself  he  was 
being  borne  swiftly  along,  and  he  could  distinguish  that 
they  were  in  the  street,  for  there  were  sounds  of  horses' 
hoofs,  sounds  of  wheels,  sounds  of  many  feet  and  many 
voices.  A  fresh  terror  seized  him.  What  if  the  governor 
had  insisted  on  sending  his  corpse  to  his  brother  instead 
of  to  the  Denhams  ?  That  would  be  worst  of  all,  worse 
even  than  the  prospect  of  being  buried  alive.  He  tried  to 
make  out  in  what  direction  he  was  being  carried,  but  in 
vain,  and  it  was  not  until  he  heard  Jeremiah's  unmistaka- 
ble cough  echoing  sepulchrally  beneath  him  that  he  began 
to  feel  reassured.  Jerry,  he  knew,  would  die  rather  than 
take  him  to  Eandolph. 

And  then  hope  rose  again  for  him,  an  ecstasy  of  hope, 
and  he  laughed  to  himself  with  silent  delight  as  he  heard 
the  sweet,  shrill  voice  of  a  girl  chanting  the  familiar  street- 
cry. 

'*  Here  are  fine  golden  pippins,  who'll  buy  them,  who'll  buy  ? 
Nobody  in  London  sells  better  than  L    Who'll  buy  them, 
who'll  buy  ?" 

It  Ptook  him  back  to  Mondisfield,  to  that  first  day  when 
little  Evelyn  had  run  after  him  with  the  king-pippins. 
That  was  in  reality  only  eighteen  months  ago,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  more  like  eighteen  years.  And  then  once 
more  the  rapture  of  the  thought  that  this  was  the  first 
stage  of  his  journey  to  Joyce  overpowered  all  else  ;  he 
could  not  definitely  think,  he  could  only  silently  enjoy, 
feeding  on  that  one  consciousness.  Suddenly  a  little  addi- 
tional shaking,  and  a  motion  of  the  coffin  which  made  him 
feel  giddy.  He  knew  that  his  bearers  had  taken  a  turn  to 
the  left;  they  must  have  turned  down  Norfolk  Street. 
Soon  after  a  pause,  more  shaking,  while  one  of  the  bearers 
knocked  at  a  door,  then  muffled  voices,  and  again  he  was 
borne  on  into  the  house,  and  deposited  jarringly  on  a  ta- 
ble. How  soon  would  they  release  him  ?  he  wondered. 
Not  just  yet,  not  till  such  of  the  household  who  were  not 
to  be  admitted  to  the  secret  had  gone  to  bed.  The  wait- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  333 

ing  seemed  long.  At  length  he  heard  anxious  voices  say- 
ing  that  all  was  safe. 

"  Indeed  you  ought  to  delay  no  longer,  sir,"  said  old 
Thomas.  "  For  the  young  gentleman  was  in  a  swoon 
when  we  closed  the  lid,  and  who  knows  if  he  be  recover- 
ed?" 

Hugo  raised  his  hand  and  beat  on  the  lid  to  reassure 
them. 

Denham  laughed. 

"  Ay,  ay,  we  hear  you,"  he  said.  "  Come  Thomas,  be 
quick  and  unscrew  him,  he  longs  for  his  resurrection." 

For  the  second  time  the  lid  was  lifted  ;  Hugo,  dazzled 
and  exhausted,  sat  up,  flung  aside  the  shroud,  and  looked 
about  him.  There  stood  his  deliverers,  the  four  bearers, 
very  weary  with  their  exertions,  for  they  had  carried  him 
a  long  distance,  Sir  William  with  tears  of  happiness  in  his 
eyes,  Lady  Denham  with  her  motherly  greeting,  and  Mary 
standing  in  the  background,  pale  and  trembling,  but  yet, 
as  his  eyes  met  hers,  coming  forward  to  greet  him  with 
outstretched  hand  and  smiling  face. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII. 

SUSPENSE. 

Oh  dear  life!  when  shall  it  be 
That  mine  eyes  thine  eyes  shall  sec. 

And  in  them  thy  mind  discover  ? 
Whether  absence  have  had  force 
Thy  remembrance  to  divorce 

From  the  image  of  thy  lover. 

SIB  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 

THEEE  were  a  thousand  things  to  be  discussed  and  ar- 
ranged, and  first,  as  Ducasse  was  preparing  to  leave,  Hugo 
drew  him  aside  and  spoke  with  him  about  his  master;  then, 
when  the  French  valet  had  gone  home  all  aglow  with  the 
thanks  and  rewards  he  had  received,  Sir  William  set  forth 
his  plan  for  the  next  stage  of  their  journey. 

"  'Tis  too  late  for  you  to  pass  the  city  gates  without 
being  too  narrowly  observed,"  he  said;  "therefore  we  think 
it  will  be  best  if  you  stay  here  till  early  morning,  when  you 
and  Eupert  shall  ride  forth  together,  and  reach  Bishop- 
Stortford  before  dark,  lie  there  that  night,  and  push  on  to 
Mondisfield  next  day.  What  think  you  of  that?" 


334  IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"You  think  tlie  delay  is  not  dangerous?"  asked  Hugo, 
who  only  longed  to  set  off  that  minute. 

"  Nay,  I  see  not  what  danger  can  befall  you  now.  Your 
brother  is  not  like  to  get  news  of  your  death  until  to-mor- 
row, and  by  the  time  he  comes  here  you  will  be  far  away, 
and  the  coffin  safely  buried." 

"  Where  is  he  to  be  buried  ?"  asked  Rupert,  laughing. 

"  In  our  family  grave/'  said  Sir  William,  who  had  not 
undertaken  to  rescue  Hugo  without  carefully  planning  all 
the  details  of  the  escape.  "  I  have  already  asked  young 
Mr.  Sachevereil  to  read  the  service  at  twelve  at  noon,  and, 
by  the  by,  Thomas,  it  might  be  as  well  if  you  now  fetched 
in  the  earth.  Go  help  him,  Rupert;  the  box  stands  in  my 
laboratory." 

Hugo  was  delighted  to  help  in  the  filling  up  of  his  coffin, 
and  when,  for  the  last  time,  the  lid  had  been  screwed 
down,  they  removed  it  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  Thomas 
brought  in  supper,  for  which  they  were  all  quite  ready. 
It  was  arranged  that  Jeremiah  should  hire  two  post- 
horses,  and  meet  Rupert  and  Hugo  in  a  quiet  back  street 
hard  by.  Here  they  would  mount  unseen,  and  ride  off  in 
the  early  morning  before  the  town  was  astir.  Jeremiah 
would  proceed  to  Harwich  later  in  the  day,  after  attend- 
ing the  funeral,  and  Sir  William  would  be  fully  prepared 
to  receive  any  remonstrances  from  Randolph,  by  remind- 
ing him  that,  as  he  had  disowned  his  brother  in  life,  it 
was  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  would  care  for  him  in 
death. 

All  seemed  to  promise  well.  Surely  now  they  were 
secure — surely  now  they  might  rest  on  their  oars — might 
relax  the  strained  anxiety  of  the  last  two  days. 

And  so,  when  the  old  serving-man  had  gone  away,  and 
when  Thomas  had  gone  to  bed,  they  drew  together  over 
the  fire,  and  talked  in  low  voices  of  all  that  had  happened 
during  Hugo's  long  imprisonment,  and  discussed  his 
future,  and  spoke  of  Mondisfield,  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe — 
even  of  Joyce.  It  was  not,  however,  until  Hugo  was  left 
for  a  few  minutes  alone  with  Mary  that  he  could  speak  free- 
ly of  that  which  was  so  near  his  heart  ;  he  felt  so  secure  of 
her  sympathy — and  surely  this  alone  was  sufficient  to  give 
the  lie  to  those  words  the  governor  of  Newgate  had  let 
fall  about  her.  Those  words  had  made  Hugo  vaguely  un- 
comfortable ;  he  remembered  the  change  that  had  imper- 
ceptibly come  over  their  friendship  after  he  had  told  her 
of  Joyce  ;  he  remembered  now  little  details  of  that  night 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  335 

at  Gray's  Inn — details  which  had  conveyed  nothing  to  him 
at  that  time,  but  which  now  returned  to  him,  and  filled  him 
with  eompunction.  Mary's  voice  startled  him  out  of  these 
thoughts. 

"  There  is  one  confession  I  have  to  make  to  you,"  she 
said,  coloring  a  little.  "  When  you  were  recovered  from 
your  illness  in  February,  I  wrote  and  told  fair  Mistress 
Joyce  that  it  was  well  with  you.  I  meant  to  tell  you  be- 
fore that  I  had  written.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  write  ?"  asked  Hugo,  more  and  more  per- 
.plexed. 

"  I  could  not  bear  her  to  be  unhappy,and  from  your  letter 
she  must  have  been  prepared  to  think  of  you  as  dead  or 
dying.  I  could  not  see  why  she  need  be  robbed  of  all 
hope.  Was  I  too  bold  to  write?  Are  you  angry  with 
me?" 

"  God  bless  you  for  it  I"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his. 
"You  may  have  saved  her  much.  Oh,  Mary,  you  are  our 
hope-bringer;  you  brought  hope  to  me  in  my  prison,  and 
you  sent  it  to  my  dear  love  in  her  sorrow." 

At  that  he  choked,  and  could  not  say  another  word. 
Was  there  naught  left  for  her,  he  wondered  ?  Had  she 
brought  hope  to  them,  and  was  she  to  be  left  desolate  ?  For 
he  could  not  but  perceive  now  that  there  was  truth  in  the 
governor's  words,  though  aware  that  Mary's  love  was  of  a 
type  which  would  have  been  incomprehensible  to  the 
speaker.  Even  he  himself  could  not  realize  that  her 
spiritual  love  gave  her  real  joy  in  his  joy.  He  felt  troubled 
for  her — she  divined  his  thoughts. 

"  Do  not  speak  as  if  I  were  some  martyr,  giving  all  and 
taking  nothing,"  she  said  lightly  :  for  so  only  was  it  possi- 
ble to  touch  on  such  a  subject.  "  Believe  me,  Hugo,  I  have 
had  my  share  of  happiness  in  what  you  call  the  hope- 
bringing.  Why,  I  brought  hope  to  myself  into  the  bar- 
gain— the  hope  of  saving  you,  of  knowing  you  would  be  on 
your  way  to  Joyce  ere  another  sun  goes  down.  'Twas  the 
happiest  notion  ever  came  to  me  in  a  theater,  that  of  your 
rescue.  I  hope  you  are  properly  grateful  to  Mr.  Shakes- 
peare, Mr.  Killigrew,  Mr.  Betterton,  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  and 
all  the  actors  and  actresses  who  may  lay  claim  to  having  a 
finger  in  this  pie." 

"  I  am  grateful  to  none  of  them,  save  you.  It  was  your 
doing." 

"  That  is  enough  to  content  the  soul  of  any  woman," 
she  said,  laughingly,  yet  with  a  deeper  meaning  beneath 


336  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  words  which  she  intended  him  to  gather.  "  I  shall 
have  to  hand  down  so  brave  a  compliment  as  that  to 
Rupert's  children  and  grandchildren,  that  they  may  prop- 
erly respect  their  kinswoman  who  rescued  a  prisoner  from 
Newgate.  I  did  but  set  the  ball  a-rolling.  Others  have 
had  the  carrying  out,  which  was  far  harder." 

"  I  can  not  yet  take  it  in,"  said  Hugo,  looking  dreamily 
round  the  familiar  room,  which  seemed  so  large  and  luxu- 
rious after  his  prison  quarters.  "  I  have  dreamed  it  so 
often  thatJE  half  fear  to  wake  now  and  find  it  all  unreal." 

"  Have  "you  thought  of  your  future  ?"  asked  Mary. 
"  Shall  you  stay  long  at  Mondisfield  ?" 

"  No,  that  would  scarce  be  wise,  with  such  a  neighbor  as 
Sir  Peregrine  Blake.  I  shall  but  stay  there  a  day  or  two, 
and  then  rejoin  Jeremiah  at  Harwich,  and  make  all  speed 
to  Amsterdam.  They  say  that  is  the  haven  of  all  exiles 
now,  since  the  town  gallantly  refuses  to  give  up  refu- 
gees." 

And  then  they  drifted  back  to  talking  of  Joyce,  and  after 
a  time  Lady  Denham  returned  with  provisions  for  the  jour- 
ney, and  so  in  preparations  and  many  last  words  the  time 
passed  swiftly  by,  till  at  last  dawn  broke,  and  Sir  William 
went  to  rouse  liupert,  who,  as  the  surest  way  to  keep  him 
sober,  had  been  induced  to  go  to  bed. 

Hugo  longed  for  the  start,  and  yet  dreaded  it.  He 
dreaded  saying  good-bye  to  the  Denhams.  How  good  they 
had  been  to  him  !  How  true  and  loyal  in  their  friendship! 
How  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world !  They  guessed  his  feel- 
ing and  made  the  parting  as  cheerful  as  possible,  Rupert, 
as  usual,  jesting  and  teasing,  Sir  William  and  Lady  Den- 
ham  full  of  kind,  hospitable  cares,  Mary  saying  little,  but 
holding  the  spaniel  in  her  arms  and  keeping  him  quiet, 
that  he  might  not  disturb  the  household. 

"  If  I  could  only  think  I  should  see  you  all  again,"  said 
Hugo,  huskily,  when  the  farewells  had  been  said. 

"  Why,  don't  lose  heart  now,  of  all  times,"  said  Rupert, 
cheerfully.  "  You'll  be  coming  here  ere  long,  and  bring 
your  bride  with  you,  I  dare  swear." 

They  were  in  the  entrance-hall ;  Hugo  involuntarily 
glanced  at  Mary.  She  smiled,  a  smile  of  perfect  sympathy, 
and,  seeing  that,  he  turned  impulsively,  again  caught  her 
hand  in  his,  and  kissed  it  ;  then,  without  another  word, 
followed  Rupert  out  into  the  gray  morning  twilight. 

All  was  very  still,  not  a  creature  stirred  in  the  silent 
streets.  The  two  did  not  say  much  ;  there  was  somehow 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  337 

a  solemn  feeling  about  that  journey  which  they  had  begun. 
Turning  a  corner,  they  came  in  sight  of  Jeremiah  holding 
the  two  horses  in  rediness  for  them.  They  mounted  iii 
haste,  and  rode  away  with  scarcely  a  word,  for  all  had 
heen  arranged  with  the  old  serving-man  beforehand.  He 
watched  them  out  of  sight,  then  returned  to  Denliams' 
house,  ostensibly  to  watch  beside  the  coffin,  but  in  reality 
to  collect  such  things  as  his  young  master  would  need  to 
tike  into  exile  with  him.  Meanwhile  Deriham  and  Hugo 
passed  through  Temple  Bar,  upon  which,  among  the  rows 
of  heads,  was  set  a  ghastly  looking  quarter,  but  newly  added 
to  the  grim  collection. 

"Yonder  is  part  of  the  last  victim  to  the  Plot,"  said  Den- 
ham,  pointing  up  with  his  riding-whip.  "  'Twas  Sir  Thomas 
Armstrong,  who  made  the  mistake  of  flying  to  Ley  den  in- 
tead  of  to  Amsterdam,  and  being  brought  back,  was  hanged 
and  quartered  a  few  days  since." 

Hugo  shuddered. 

"  I  heard  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  toll,"  he  said.  "But  they 
did  not  tell  me  whom  it  was  for." 

The  news  saddened  him,  and  made  him  apprehensive;  he 
did  not  breathe  freely  till  they  had  left  the  city  behind 
them,  passed  out  through  Bishopsgate,  and  gained  the  free, 
Open  country.  Then  the  rapture  of  escape  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  comparative  safety  overpowered  all  other 
thoughts,  and  his  spirits  rose  to  the  highest  pitch.  How 
beautiful  was  this  country  road  along  which  he  had  last 
ridden  a  handcuffed  prisoner,  how  green  the  grass  was, 
how  wide  the  great  blue  expanse  of  sky !  Accustomed  to  the 
blank,  white  walls  of  a  cell,  he  was  almost  intoxicated  by 
the  mere  delight  of  color,  the  rich  brown  earth  freshly 
plowed,  the  red  brick  of  the  cottages,  the  fresh  spring  green 
of  the  trees,  the  golden  glory  of  buttercups  and  celandines. 
He  was  like  one  who,  returning  from  a  long  sea-voyage, 
greets  the  earth  anew,  comes  to  it  once  more  as  to  a  fresh 
paradise.  He  could  have  laughed  with  delight  at  the  mere 
sight  of  of  the  green  fields,  flat  Essex  fields  though  they 
were;  the  sun  just  rising  threw  its  level  beams  over  the 
wide  landscape,  the  fresh  morning  air  made  mere  breathing 
a  pleasure;  he  was  free  once  more,  free  and  on  his  way  to 
his  love — what  wonder  that  the  dark  past  fled  from  him 
like  a  dream  of  the  night. 

After  a  while,  hungry  with  their  early  ride,  they  drew 
rein  and  paused  beside  a  field-gate  to  do  justice  to  Lady 
Denham's  provisions,  while  their  horses  cropped  the  grass 


338  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

by  the  roadside.  A  flock  of  sheep  were  feeding  in  the 
level,  green  pasturage.  Hugo  watched  them  with  a  sort 
of  fascination  ;  the  white,  woolly  creatures  had  never 
seemed  beautiful  to  him  before,  but  to-day  he  could  not 
look  long  enough  at  them,  even  the  cracked  sheep-bell  was 
musical,  the  baaing  and  bleating  of  the  lambs  was  more 
delicious  to  his  ears  than  the  finest  concert. 

Then  on  once  more  through  the  green  lanes  and  flowery 
banks,  past  hamlet  and  village,  waste  land  and  town,  until 
at  length  in  the  evening  they  reached  Bishop-Stortford, 
and,  avoiding  the  inn  at  which  he  had  slept  when  brought 
there  as  a  prisoner,  made  their  way  to  a  smaller  hos- 
telry. 

Then  they  both  began  to  feel  that  the  escape  had  tired 
them.  They  supped  at  once  and  made  all  speed  to  bed, 
nor  troubled  themselves  at  all  with  thoughts  of  pursuit  or 
discovery,  but  slept  all  night  with  never  a  dream  to  disturb 
their  peace.  All  had  gone  on  smoothly,  why  should  they 
fear  now  ?  Surely  all  risk  was  over  ? 

"  Fresh  as  a  daisy,"  was  Rupert's  greeting,  when  Hugo 
came  down  the  next  morning.  "Your  lady-love  will  scarce 
believe  your  dismal  tales  of  Newgate  dungeons,  an  you  go 
to  her  looking  like  that." 

"  Have  you  ordered  the  horses  ?"  asked  Hugo,  eagerly, 
only  longing  to  start  without  delay. 

"  Ay,  ay,  they  will  be  here  anon  ;  but  odds-fish,  man, 
you  would  not  have  us  go  on  empty  stomachs  !  Come,  sit 
down  and  make  a  good  meal  ;  here  is  trout  such  as  I'll 
warrant  you  have  not  tasted  in  jail." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  inn  parlor,  a  comfortable,  wain- 
scoted room,  with  the  ceiling  supported  by  oaken  beams, 
and  the  window  gay  with  spring  flowers.  They  were  very 
merry  over  their  breakfast ;  Denham  told  his  latest  stories, 
and  they  laughed  over  them  as  they  had  never  had  the 
heart  to  laugh  when  he  bad  visited  his  friend  in  Newgate. 
For  atmosphere  makes  a  great  difference,  and  what  atmos- 
phere could  be  more  exhilarating  than  that  of  the  cozy 
parlor  at  Bishop-Stortford  on  the  morning  on  which  Hugo 
was  to  return  to  Mondisfield. 

"And  so,"  concluded  Rupert,  "as  the  king  played  at 
Pall  Mall  in  the  Park,  there  came  to  him  at  the  most  ill- 
convenient  of  times  one  who  brought  him  news — "  he  broke 
off  abruptly,  for  Hugo  had  turned  ashy  pale,  and  had 
grasped  his  arm. 

"  Hush !"  he  cried,  "  for  God's  sake,  listen  !" 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  339 

Denham,  much  alarmed,  held  his  breath.  Some  one 
was  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  talking  meanwhile  to  the 
servant. 

"  A  pest  on  your  foolish  pate — did  I  not  bid  you  have 
breakfast  ready  for  me  long  ere  this  ?  Let  it  be  served 
forthwith,  you  lazy  varlefc.  What's  that?  What  do  you 
say  ?" 

The  voice  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  Rupert  knew  that 
without  doubt  it  was  the  voice  of  Randolph  Wharncliffe. 
He  was  confounded.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never  known 
such  a  horrible  moment.  Not  dreaming  of  pursuit,  they 
had  walked  into  a  trap,  had  by  ill-luck  actually  thrown 
themselves  into  Randolph's  arms. 

But  long  training  in  adversity  had  taught  Hugo  wisdom. 
A  year  before  he  would  have  lost  his  head,  would  infalli- 
bly have  been  taken  as  he  was  at  the  table.  He  had  not 
lived  through  those  months  of  misery  for  nothing.  Quick 
as  lightning  he  sprung  forward;  in  one  glance  he  had 
taken  in  the  whole  of  the  room,  and,  before  Denham  Lad 
time  to  wonder  what  he  was  about  to  do,  had  sought  the 
sole  shelter  the  place  afforded.  By  the  side  of  the  hearth 
was  a  cupboard;  he  flung  open  the  door,  glanced  in,  saw 
that  amid  fagots,  mops,  tallow  dips,  and  rushlights  was 
just  room  for  him  to  hide,  and  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion sprung  in.  Denham,  darting  forward,  locked  the 
door  upon  him  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket;  then,  with 
an  agility  which  would  have  made  any  spectator  laugh, 
rushed  back  to  his  place  at  the  table,  and,  when  the  door 
of  the  parlor  opened,  had  his  face  well  buried  in  a  huge 
tankard  of  ale. 

As  he  drunk  he  thought — he  was  not  good  at  forming 
schemes  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  but  now  his  despera- 
tion and  determination  that,  come  what  might,  he  must 
save  his  friend,  stimulated  Liin  to  unwonted  exertion.  As 
an  actor  he  was  in  his  element,  and,  the  plan  once  formed, 
he  might  be  trusted  to  carry  it  through  with  credit. 

"First-rate  home-brewed,  that!"  he  remarked,  setting 
down  the  tankard,  and  stooping  to  wipe  his  mouth  on  the 
table-cloth. 

"  What,  Denham  !"  exclaimed  Randolph  Wharncliffe,  who 
had  come  into  the  room,  and  was  looking  discontentedly 
at  the  table,  which  showed  no  preparation  for  his  break- 
fast. 

Then  he  remembered  that  since  his  conduct  to  Hugo  the 
Denhams  had  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  and  he  turned 


340  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

away  with  an  oath,  vexed  that  he  had  been  startled  into  a 
greeting  which  would  not  be  returned. 

"  I  did  not  think  to  meet  you  here,"  said  Denham,  in  a 
grave  voice.  The  voice  was  so  unlike  his  own  that  Ran- 
dolph turned  and  looked  at  him.  Rupert  was  paler  than 
usual,  his  face  was  sterner. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  Newmarket,"  said  Randolph,  sur- 
prised that  his  first  remark  should  have  called  for  any 
response.  Then,  with  an  uneasy  attempt  at  jovial  care- 
lessness, "  And,  by  the  by,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  am  in  your 
debt.  Do  you  remember  the  supper  we  had  a  year  last 
October  in  that  country  inn  ?" 

"Ay,"  said  Denham,  gravely.     " I  remember." 

"  An  I  recollect  aright,  you  took  twenty  to  one  that 
Hugo  would  never  succeed  at  court.  Well,  I  own  myself 
beaten.  Hugo  hath  failed  miserably,  hath  defeated  all  my 
hopes." 

"  Ay,  he  hath  defeated  them  in  a  way  you  little  reck- 
oned on,"  said  Denham,  with  an  angry  flash  in  his  dark 
eyes.  "  Sir,  I  must  speak  plainly  with  you.  I  did  not 
think  to  meet  you  here,  but  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message 
which  perchance  will  not  be  wholly  welcome  to  your  ears." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  deliver  messages  from 
Hugo.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  have  disowned  him  ? 
He  is  naught  to  me.  Quit  the  subject,  sir,  at  once.  I 
will  hearken  to  no  message  from  him." 

"  You  will  never  have  to  hearken  to  words  of  his  again," 
said  Denham,  looking  him  full  in  the  face.  "  I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  message  to  you,  but  not  from  him.  My  father 
thought  you  ought  to  be  informed  that  your  brother  is 
dead," 

"  Dead  !"  exclaimed  Randolph,  incredulously. 

"  Dead,"  repeated  Denham,  in  his  coldest  voice.  "  But 
really,  sir,  it  can  be  a  matter  of  little  interest  to  you,  see- 
ing that  you  have  ceased  to  regard  him  as  one  of  your  kith 
and  kin." 

Randolph  made  no  reply,  but  fell  back  in  the  nearest 
chair.  His  face  had  become  livid.  Rupert  continued, 
rather  cruelly  : 

"  I  suppose  his  death  disconcerts  your  plans.  'Dead 
men  tell  no  tales,'  as  the  proverb  hath  it.  In  this  case, 
dead  men  can  unfortunately,  not  give  evidence.  An  you 
wished  your  brother  to  do  that,  you  should  not  have  left 
him  to  pine  away  his  life  in  Newgate." 

Randolph  made  no  reply,  but  feeling  Denham's  reproach- 


IN   THE   GOLDEN    DAYS. 

ful  gaze  intolerable,  be  bent  forward  and  bid  bis  face  in  bis 
bands. 

Tbere  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Denbain,  thinking  it 
came  from  tbe  cupboard,  started  violently.  Tbe  servant 
entered,  set  down  a  pile  of  plates  on  tbe  table,  and  tben,  to 
Denbam's  dismay,  crossed  tbe  room  and  tried  to  open  tbe 
cupboard  door. 

"  Don't  loiter  about  in  here,"  be  said,  sharply ;  "  get 
•what  you  want  elsewhere,  tbis  gentleman  does  not  wisb  to 
be  disturbed;  he  batb  private  affairs  to  discuss  wit  lime/ 

"Your  pardon,  sir,  'tis  but  a  fagot  I  want  from  tbe  cup 
board;  but  drat  tbe  door,  I  do  declare  it  must  be  be- 
witched." 

"  D — n  you  and  tbe  fagots  too  1"  said  Kupert,  wrathfully. 
"  Get  you  gone,"  and  fetch  your  firing  from  elsewbere.  Can 
you  not  see  tbat  tbis  gentleman  wishes  to  be  alone  ?" 

Tbe  servant  glanced  at  tbe  bowed  figure,  and  witb  a 
sbrug  of  tbe  sboulders  left  tbe  room.  Denbam  breatbed 
more  freely.  But  tbe  danger  was  by  no  means  past.  Ran- 
dolpb  raised  a  baggard  face  wben  tbe  door  bad  closed  be- 
hind tbe  servant. 

"  How  did  be  die  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"  He  bad  bad  one  of  his  ague-fits  the  day  before,  and 
next  morning  Scroop,  tbe  jailer,  went  into  bis  cell  and 
found  him  cold  as  a  stone.  Tbe  only  wonder  is  tbat  be 
batb  survived  so  much." 

"Curse  their  folly!"  said  Kandolpb,  bitterly.  "They 
told  me  he  was  better — they  told  me  he  got  daily  stronger. 
They  told  me  be  was  well  lodged  and  well  fed  and  tbat 
you  did  all  that  was  permitted  for  bis  comfort." 

"That  was  true  enough,"  said  Rupert.  "We  did  what 
we  could — and  for  Newgate  be  was  not  ill-lodged.  But 
you  know  what  this  winter  hath  been.  Three  prisoners 
died  before  him  in  the  same  room.  Was  Hugo  such  a  Her- 
cules that  he  should  live  wben  all  others  perished  ?  You 
know  well  enough  tbat  his  strength  never  was  anything  to 
boast  of.  Why,  even  old  Busby  bad  to  temper  his  floggings 
when  Hugo  was  in  question.  You  should  have  taken  a 
leaf  out  of  bis  book." 

To  his  surprise  Randolph's  hard  face  began  to  work 
convulsively.  Again  he  bowed  his  head.  There  was 
silence  in  the  room,  broken  only  by  tbe  strong  man's  sobs. 

In  the  meantime,  from  bis  hiding-place,  Hugo  bad 
watched  tbe  whole  scene.  Tremblingly  be  had  seen  Ran- 


342  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

dolph's  entrance,  had  listened  for  Eupert's  first  words, 
upon  which  so  much  would  hang. 

It  was  long  months  since  he  had  last  seen  his  brother ; 
he  watched  him  intently,  and  instinctively  knew  that  the 
change  in  his  expression  was  a  change  for  the  worse.  But 
yet  the  sight  of  him  moved  him  greatly — moved  him  so 
much  that  he  forgot  his  fear,  forgot  the  terrible  risk  he 
ran,forgotthat  everything  depended  on  the  interview  which 
he  was  watching.  It  was  so  strange  to  be  thus  an  unseen 
spectator  that  he  really  felt  as  though  he  were  dead — as  if 
Ruperts's  words  were  strictly  true.  He  listened  with 
the  strangest  feeling  to  the  account  of  his  own  illness 
and  death  ;  he  watched  Randolph's  face  with  interest 
and  sympathy,  even  with  a  sort  of  joy.  After  all, 
his  brother  had  not  then  in  reality  disowned  him. 
He  had  uttered  the  cold  words,  but  in  his  heart  had  all  the 
lime  cared  for  him.  He  grieved  for  him  now — grieved  for 
him,  not  for  the  defeat  of  his  own  plans  ;  that  was  cruel  of 
Rupert  to  suggest  such  a  thing — Randolph's  face  gave  the 
lie  to  any  idea  of  the  kind.  When  he  saw  him  bow  his 
head  to  hide  his  grief  from  Denh ana's  stern  gaze,  it  was  all 
he  could  do  not  to  make  his  presence  known.  How  could 
he  let  his  brother  suffer  thus?  How  could  he  let  him  live 
all  his  life  long  with  this  weight  upon  his  conscience  ?  It 
was  intolerable.  He  must  reveal  himself,  must  put  un 
end  to  tli is  ghastly  farce. 

At  that  moment  the  entrance  of  the  servant  had  scattered 
all  his  thoughts  to  the  winds.  He  suddenly  realized  what 
discovery  would  mean.  It  would  mean  terrible  danger  to 
all  who  had  befriended  him,  it  would  mean  risk  to  Colonel 
Wharncliffe,  it  would  mean  an  end  to  all  hopes  of  seeing 
Joyce.  For  Randolph  would  never  forgive  the  deception 
that  had  been  practiced  on  him. 

Panic  seized  Hugo  as  the  servant  shook  and  rattled  the 
cupboard  door  ;  his  breath  came  fast  and  hard,  great  drops 
of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  The  servant  left  the 
room,  but  there  was  no  knowing  that  he  would  not  return, 
£here  was  no  knowing  that  Randolph's  suspicion  might  not 
be  awakened  by  so  strange  a  circumstance  as  a  cupboard 
door  which  would  not  open  and  a  traveler  who  had  left  his 
breakfast  half  eaten.  Through  the  keyhole  he  could  see 
all  with  terrible  distinctness  ;  the  chair  which  he  had 
lately  occupied  pushed  back,  the  unfinished  plate  of  fish, 
the  fragment  of  a  manchet  ;  Randolph  sitting  opposite  al 
this,  unobservant  as  yet,  his  face  hidden  by  the  long  cur  1 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

wig  which  drooped  low  on  the  table  ;  Denham  glaring 
across  at  him,  anxiety,  fear,  perplexity,  all  contending  for 
the  mastery  in  his  face — for,  as  his  enemy's  head  was 
bowed  for  an  instant,  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  actor,  was 
simply  the  embarrassed  friend,  scheming  in  vain  to  get 
this  dangerous  man  off  the  premises.  Hugo  watched  it  all 
as  if  he  had  been  watching  a  scene  at  the  play  ;  the  sun- 
shine crept  in  through  the  lattice  window  and  lit  up  Ran- 
dolph's  gray  doublet  and  crimsoin  baldrick,  gleamed  too 
on  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Every  detail  was  keenly  noted 
by  the  silent  watcher.  He  even  noticed  the  silver-handled 
riding-whip  with  the  same  heavy  leathern  throng  which 
he  had  good  reason  to  remember.  How  handsome  Den- 
harn  looked,  too,  with  his  merry  face,  grave  and  stern,  with 
anxious  thought  in  the  usually  careless  eyes  ! 

Once  more  a  servant  entered,  this  time  a  comely  girl  in 
red  petticoat,  gray  cloth  waistcoat,  gray  linsey-woolsey 
apron,  scarlet  neckerchief  knotted  in  front,  and  snowy  cap. 
She  too  had  a  try  at  the  cupboard  door.  By  this  time 
Hugo  had  grown  philosophic,  had  schooled  himself  into 
quiet,  almost  into  indifference.  The  girl  gave  it  up,  and, 
going  to  the  table,  began  to  clear  a  place  for  Randolph. 

"You  have  finished,  sir?"  she  said,  turning  to  Denhani. 

".Ay,  clear  the  decks,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

"  The  other  young  gentleman,  sir,  hath  he  done  ?" 

"  Ay,  he  has  done  too." 

Randolph  looked  up. 

"  You  are  not  alone,  then  ?"  he  asked,  glancing  across  the 
table. 

"  Yes,  I  am  alone,"  said  Denham,  coolly.  "  But,  as  ill- 
luck  would  have  it,  I  .fell  in  with  an  old  acquaintance  on 
the  road,  and  he  chose  to  put  up  at  this  inn,  which,  in 
truth,  is  not  so  good  a  one  as  the  other  lower  down.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  Newmarket,  but  I  need  accompany  him 
no  further  on  the  road,  for  now  that  I  have  found  you  I 
shall  return  to  London." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Randolph,  raising  a  tankard 
of  ale  to  his  lips  with  a  hand  that  visibly  trembled.  "  I 
must  attend  my  brother's  funeral." 

"  Then  if  we  mean  to  do  that  we  must  lose  no  time," 
said  Denham.  "  I  rode  off  in  haste,  but  there  was  a  ru- 
mor in  the  house  that  the  funeral  would  have  to  take  place 
speedily.  Unless  we  start  off  at  once  I  doubt  we  shall  be 
too  late." 

"  I  am  ready  to  follow  you,"  said  Randolph.     "  I  have 


344  IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

no  stomach  for  breakfast  after  your  ill  news.  Denham, 
before  God,  I  swear  that  I  never  dreamed  imprisonment 
could  harm  a  hair  of  his  head.  I  meant  him  but  to  stay 
there  till  he  yielded." 

Denham  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Then  you  might  have  known  that  you  were  dooming 
him  to  stay  there  all  his  life,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  How 
should  such  as  Hugo  yield  to  you?  How  should  light  be 
conquered  by  darkness  ?  But  come,  we  waste  time,  let  us 
have  the  horses  round  and  be  off  at  once.  If  I  speak 
plainly,  you  must  pardon  me;  a  man  does  not  lightly  lose 
a  friend  like  Hugo." 

Before  long  the  horses  were  ready,  the  bills  paid,  the 
servants  feed.  All  was  quiet  in  the  inn-parlor.  Randolph 
had  already  mounted.  Hugo  in  his  cupboard  could  hear 
the  horses  pawing  impatiently.  He  wondered  much  what 
would  happen  to  him — how  he  was  to  be  released.  Den- 
ham's  loud  voice  penetrated  to  his  still  retreat. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  I  am  ready  at  last.  Oh,  bide  a  bit, 
though.  Where  the  devil  is  my  tobacco-pouch  ?  I  must 
have  left  it  in  the  parlor.  Bide  on,  an  you  will;  I  will 
overtake  you." 

The  horses'  hoofs  were  plainly  heard  without.  Randolph 
must  indeed  have  started.  Then  came  quick  footsteps  in 
the  passage,  and  Denham  rushed  into  the  room,  unlocked 
the  door  in  a  trice,  arid  dragged  out  his  friend. 

"  Safe !"  he  gasped.  "  Make  all  speed  to  Mondisfield, 
and  fly  the  country  as  soon  as  may  be.  Things  may  leak 
out;  do  not  linger." 

Then,  before  Hugo  could  speak  one  word  of  thanks, 
before  he  could  even  bid  him  farewell,  he  was  oft  once  more, 
and  the  next  minute  Hugo  saw  him  pass  the  window  on 
his  horse,  making  all  the  haste  he  could  to  rejoin  Ran- 
dolph. 

Hugo  locked  the  cupboard,  dropped  the  key  at  a  little 
distance,  then  called  boldy  for  his  bill,  ordered  his  horse  to 
be  brought  to  the  door,  packed  his  saddle-bags,  and  in  an- 
other quarter  of  an  hour  had  left  Bishop-Stortford  behind 
him,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Mondisfield. 

At  first  thoughts  of  Randolph  disturbed  his  peace,  but 
soon  all  faded  save  the  consciousness  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Joyce,  that  ere  the  sun  went  down  her  sorrow  would 
be  ended,  that  in  a  few  hours'  time  he  should  once  more 
clasp  her  to  his  heart,  tell  her  how  he  had  kept  his  promise, 
and  had  come  back  as  she  had  bidden  him.  He  was  tired, 


IN   THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  345 

desperately  tired,  for  the  strain  of  the  last  few  days  had 
been  great,  and  the  long  ride  was  exhausting,  spite  of  the 
hope  which  kept  him  up.  Yet  how  different  was  the  pain 
and  weariness  from  that  which  he  had  endured  on  the 
summer  day  when  he  had  last  ridden  along  that  road.  His 
heart  danced  within  him  as  he  galloped  on,  passed  the 
wayside  cottages,  through  the  village  where  the  children 
had  given  him  the  water,  over  the  heathy  plain,  till  at 
length  the  cross-roads  were  reached,  and  he  knew  that 
there  was  but  a  mile  to  Mondisiield. 

The  horse  began  to  show  symptoms  of  fatigue,  for  he  had 
had  a  hard  journey,  and  but  little  rest;  and  as  to  the  rider, 
he  was  so  worn  out  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  seat.  He 
bent  low  over  the  horse's  neck,  too  weary  to  sit  upright, 
and  yet,  spite  of  all,  his  heart  was  bounding  with  happi- 
ness. Had  he  not  been  so  physically  exhausted  he  would 
have  sung  aloud  for  very  gladness.  They  were  going  at  a 
foot  pace,  for  the  ground  sloped  a  little,  when  all  at  once 
they  came  to  the  old  black  barn  by  the  roadside.  Hugo's 
heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy  as  he  caught  sight  of  it. 
Then  slowly  they  rounded  the  corner,  and  came  in  sight  of 
the  three  elm-trees  at  the  gate  of  Mondisfield  Park. 

"  My  God !"  he  exclaimed.     "  My  God !" 

Griffith  might  have  been  shocked,  yet  the  ejaculation  was 
but  the  natural  outburst  of  a  heart  filled  to  overflowing 
•with  long-deferred  joy. 

For  on  the  grassy  mound  at  the  foot  of  the  trees  sat 
Joyce.  Joyce  with  her  light  curls  gently  stirred  by  the 
wind,  with  her  sweet  face  gravely  bent  over  a  hatful  of 
primroses  which  she  was  sorting  and  tying  in  bunches. 
Very  sweet,  but  very  wistful,  did  she  look.  He  had  time 
to  note  the  change  in  her  ere  she  looked  up,  indeed. 
he  was  close  to  her  before  she  became  aware  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  road,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  see 
whether  by  chance  it  might  be  the  post  with  a  letter  from 
her  father. 

Ah !  what  was  this  ?  She  saw  him,  she  recognized  him, 
but  yet  made  no  movement  toward  him,  uttered  no  cry  of 
joy,  smiled  no  smile  of  relief,  but,  rising  to  her  feet,  stood, 
with  wide-open  eyes  and  blanched  face,  clutching  at  one  of 
the  trees  as  though  to  support  herself.  She  was  not  glad 
to  see  him  ;  she  was  terrified,  Oh,  what  had  happened  ? 
There  surely  could  be  but  one  thing  which  would  make 
her  fear  to  meet  him. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  stab  of  pain  at  his  heart,  then 


316  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

of  a  wild,  blind   impulse  which  made  him  throw  himself 

from  his  horse  and  rush  toward  her. 

"  Joyce  !"  he  cried,  "Joyce !  my  love !  my  love  !" 

She   shrunk  back,    trembling,   white,   terrified.     It  was 

more  than  he  could  endure  ;  with  a  low  cry  he  fell  forward 

— fell  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

UNDER    THE    APPLE-TKEES. 

Wept  they  had,  alas  the  while  ! 
But  now  tears  themselves  did  smile. 
While  their  eyes,  by  love  directed, 
Interchangeably  reflected. 

SIB  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 

IN  those  days,  at  any  rate  in  those  remote  country  dis- 
tricts, the  belief  in  ghosts  was  much  more  prevalent  than 
in  the  nineteenth  century.  Joyce,  looking  up  from  her 
primroses  on  that  spring  afternoon,  and  seeing  before  her 
what  she  took  to  be  a  white  phantom  horse,  with  the 
wraith  of  her  lover,  shrunk  back  in  unconquerable  dread. 
Her  heart  beat  so  fast  that  it  nearly  stifled  her,  she  stared 
in  dread  fascination  at  the  spectral  figure,  which  was  Hugo 
and  yet  which  was  not  Hugo,  for  the  face  was  pale  and 
transparent,  the  eyes  shone  strangely — he  looked  alto- 
gether unearthly. 

It  was  now  five  months  since  the  tidings  of  his  death 
had  reached  her;  the  news-letter  which  contradicted  the 
intelligence  had  been  lost  in  one  of  the  winter  storms; 
Mary's  letter  had  shared  the  same  fate;  it  was  impossible 
that  she  could  think  this  sudden  return  anything  but  an 
apparition  from  the  other  world,  or  an  hallucination  of  the 
brain. 

The  rapture  in  her  lover's  face,  the  radiant  joy  depicted 
there,  his  changed  voice,  his  altered  form,  all  tended  to 
confirm  her  mistake,  strangely  enough  it  was  not  until  she 
saw  that  look  of  joy  replaced  by  one  of  agony  that  she  be- 
gan to  doubt — not  until  she  saw  him  fall  to  the  ground  at 
her  feet,  that  she  was  suddenly  convinced  that  this  was 
Hugo  in  the  flesh,  no  dread  visitant  from  another  world, 
but  her  own  lover,  wearied  with  a  long  journey,  worn  with 
illness  and  imprisonment. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  347 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  hurrying  forward  managed  to 
turn  his  face  to  the  light,  hoping  that  the  fresh  spring 
wind  would  revive  Lim;  she  chafed  his  cold  hands,  she 
called  to  him,  broken-hearted  to  think  what  pain  she  must 
have  unwittingly  have  given  him—  how  cruel  a  welcome 
had  been  his. 

And  so,  presently,  amid  rushing  and  booming  in  his  ears 
as  once  more  he  struggled  back  to  life,  Hugo  became 
aware  of  a  sweet  voice  broken  with  sobs.  How  piteous 
and  yet  how  delicious  it  was !  he  could  not  stir,  he 
dreaded  breaking  that  magic  spell. 

"  Hugo  !  Hugo  1"  she  cried.  "  Dear  love !  Sweetheart ! 
How  cold,  how  hateful,  I  must  have  seemed  to  you.  Oh, 
how  could  I  think  it  your  wraith  ?  Yet  they  told  me  you 
were  dead.  Hugo.  Ah,  you  stir,  you  sigh  ?  Dear  love, 
speak  to  me — speak !" 

Kneeling  beside  him  on  the  grass,  she  rained  tears  and 
kisses  on  his  face;  he  opened  his  eyes;  was  it  only  the  vis- 
ion that  had  so  often  come  to  him  in  Newgate,  of  Joyce 
kneeling  beside  him  in  the  copse  by  the  Suffolk  roadside 
on  the  day  of  the  duel  ?  He  looked  at  the  sweet,  tear- 
stained  face,  and  knew  how  different  the  vision  was,  for 
now  she  was  his  own — all  his  own !  At  the  thought  new 
life,  new  strength  took  possession  of  him.  He  sprung  up, 
wroth  with  himself  for  having  alarmed  her.  She  had 
thought  him  dead,  and  his  sudden  return  was  almost 
enough  to  kill  her.  At  the  thought  he  was  once  again  all 
strength  and  manly  tenderness. 

"  My  dear  one,  did  they  send  you  false  tidings  of  my 
death  ?"  he  cried.  "  Had  I  but  known,  I  would  have 
written,  would  not  for  the  world  have  broken  on  you  thus 
suddenly." 

She  wanted  no  explanation,  it  was  enough  for  her  to  feel 
his  arms  round  her,  enough  to  know  that  he  was  alive, 
free,  and  once  more  at  Mondisfield. 

There  was  a  timeless  pause,  into  which  no  fears  or  cares 
obtruded  themselves,  all  but  love  and  joy  was  crowded  out; 
the  two  so  long  parted  had  each  other  once  more  and  were 
unconscious  of  aught  else  in  the  world.  It  was  the  white 
horse  which  at  length  started  Joyce  into  some  recollection 
of  place. 

They  were  close  to  the  public  road;  a  vague  instinct  of 
danger  came  to  trouble  her  perfect  peace. 

"  Dear  one,"  she  said,  "  are  you  safe  from  pursuit  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  for  how  long,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "But 


843  IN   £HE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

at  present  I  am  safe.  For  the  next  day  or  two  I  remain 
here,  if  your  father  will  permit  me." 

"  My  father  is  abroad,  at  Amsterdam.  You  must  come 
and  let  my  mother  bid  you  welcome,"  said  Joyce.  "  Do 
not  let  us  linger  so  near  the  road,  it  may  be  prudent  to 
keep  your  visit  from  the  village  folk." 

"  You  are  right/'  he  said,  anxiety  once  more  returning 
to  him.  And  yet  there  was  a  certain  sweetness  in  feeling 
that  she  shared  in  the  anxiety,  there  was  bliss  in  seeing 
how  already  she  thought  for  him,  planned  for  him.  He  led 
in  the  white  horse  which  all  the  time  had  been  dining 
comfortably  on  the  long  grass  by  the  wayside,  and  Joyce 
walked  beside  him  up  the  drive  till  they  came  in  sight  of 
the  dear  old  house,  with  its  brown-tiled  roof,  its  salmon- 
pink  front,  its  familiar  windows.  He  told  her  some  of  the 
details  of  his  escape,  and  then  they  conferred  together  as 
to  the  best  way  of  making  his  presence  known  to  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe.  In  the  end  Joyce  persuaded  him  to  let  her 
run  on  quickly  to  the  house,  while  he  left  his  horse  in  the 
stable-yard.  He  could  hardly  bear  to  let  her  go  out  of  his 
sight,  but  she  was  afraid  the  sudden  shock  might  be  bad 
for  her  mother,  and,  remembering  how  her  father  had  bid 
her  on  the  last  night  to  be  in  all  things  her  mother's 
helper,  she  could  not  even  now  let  her  happiness  make 
her  careless. 

They  were  all  of  them  country  girls,  could  ride,  run,  and 
swim  to  perfection  ;  but  Joyce  had  never  run  so  fast  as  on 
that  day  ;  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  eyes  beaming 
with  joy,  when  she  threw  open  the  door  of  the  south  par- 
lor. Mrs.  Wharncliffe  could  only  look  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Mother  dear,"  said  Joyce,  kneeling  beside  her,  and  try- 
ing to  speak  calmly,  "  there  is  no  fresh  news  from  father, 
but  yet  good  news  has  come  to-day  to  Mondisfield." 

"  Has  the  post  been  here  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wharncliffe. 

"  Not  the  post,"  said  Joyce.  "  Much  better  than  a  mere 
letter.  Oh,  mother  darling,  it  was  all  a  mistake;  the  news- 
letter did  but  publish  a  false  rumor  about  Hugo.  He  is 
alive,  he  is  free,  he  is  here !" 

Waiting  only  for  her  mother's  close  embrace,  scarcely 
hearing  her  words  of  surprise  and  delight,  Joyce  flew 
away,  for  her  quick  ear  had  detected  steps  upon  the  gravel 
outside.  In  another  minute  she  returned  ;  Mrs.  Wharn- 
cliffe had  risen  to  meet  them,  but  paused,  thinking  perhaps 
it  were  well  that  her  welcome  of  Hugo  should  be  in  the  south 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  349 

parlor  rather  than  at  the  front  door.  Once  more  the  door  was 
opened  ;  she  saw  her  little  girl  flushed,  eager,  radiant  with 
happiness,  and  beside  her,  holding  her  hand,  walked  Hugo. 
She  gave  him  a  mother's  greeting,  then  drew  back  a  step, 
looking  at  him  with  a  long,  searching  look.  It  was  Hugo, 
yet  not  Hugo.  Her  feeling  was,  after  all,  not  unlike  Joyce's 
when  she  had  first  caught  sight  of  him.  The  dreamy, 
philosophic  youth,  the  boy  who  had  yielded  to  that  dread 
temptation  in  the  gallery,  the  lad  who  had  afterward  so 
nearly  succumbed  to  his  brother's  will  when  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe  lay  in  hiding,  was  no  more.  Not  a  year  had  passed 
since  that  dread  summer  day,  but  the  time  had  been  long 
enough  with  Hugo.  He  looked  many  years  older,  he  had 
come  back  to  Mondisfield  a  man.  The  broad  forehead  and 
the  quiet  eyes  were  pure  as  ever,  but  shone  with  a  light 
that  was  new  and  strange;  the  loyalty  which  had  once  be- 
longed solely  to  Randolph  had  deepened  and  widened.  He 
was  no  longer  the  blind  tool  of  another,  but  the  devoted 
love,  the  noble  constancy,  had  been  turned  into  its  true 
course. 

It  is  ever  those  who  are  willing  to  lose  their  life  that 
shall  verily  find  it ;  and  that  which  was  true  and  good, 
even  though  misdirected  in  the  old  life,  shall  be  truer  and 
better  in  the  new.  For  man's  life  is  like  a  stream  ;  pain 
and  trial  are  but  the  dams  which  drive  back  the  water  to 
.  its  rightful  channel — and  that  which  was  pure  and  spark- 
ling on  its  way  to  the  black  morass  is  pure  and  bright  and 
a  thousandfold  stronger  when,  turned  in  its  course,  it 
joins  the  river  and  is  borne  on  seaward. 

"  Hugo,"  said  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  with  a  smile,  after  the 
first  greetings  and  questions  were  over,  "  will  you  blame 
me  if  I  treat  you  now  at  once  as  my  son  ?  In  truth  I  was 
in  sore  need  of  one  to  help-me,  for  in  three  days'  time  we 
leave  this  place  and  rejoin  my  husband." 

"  You  are  to  go  to  Holland !''  exclaimed  Hugo,  with  de- 
light. "  Then  you  will  let  me  travel  with  you,  and  serve 
you  so  far  as  I  am  able.  I  do  not  think  my  brother  is  like- 
ly to  insist  on  exhuming  my  body,  and  in  no  other  way  is 
the  truth  likely  to  be  betrayed  ;  therefore  I  do  not  think 
my  presence  could  in  any  way  endanger  you." 

"  In  truth  you  will  be  the  greatest  comfort,"  said  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe,  "  for  you  know  the  world  and  the  ways  of  trav- 
eling, whereas  I  for  many  years  have  never  been  further 
than  to  St.  Edmondsbury  in  my  own  coach.  But,  come ! 
we  must  not  keep  you  here  talking  of  the  future,  I  will 


350  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

show  you  to  the  guest-chamber,  and  you,  little  Joyce,  run 
and  bid  them  bring  in  supper  speedily.  Hugo  must  be 
hungry  after  his  long  ride." 

Hugo  changed  his  dusty  traveling  dress  for  one  of  the 
fresh  suits  which  the  Denhams  had  prepared  for  him.  He 
took  great  pleasure  in  donning  clothes  which  had  never 
seen  theinside  of  Newgate,  and  the  mere  consciousness  that 
he  was  once  more  in  a  free,  open  country-house  was  in  itself 
exquisite.  How  pure  and  sweet  the  old  guest-chamber 
seemed  to  him,  how  fresh  the  wainscoted  walls,  the  chintz 
curtains,  the  white  bed  in  its  deep  recess !  And  about  all 
was  that  indescribable  smell  of  the  country  which,  ever  no- 
ticeable to  townbred  folk,  was  doubly  delicious  to  Hugo 
after  his  long  imprisonment.  It  made  him  think  of  the 
scene  in  the  "  House  Beautiful,"  which  he  knew  almost  by 
heart  from  constant  reading:  "The  pilgrim  they  laid  in 
a  large,  upper  chamber,  whose  window  opened  toward  the 
sun-rising;  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace." 

Presently  in  the  country  stillness  he  caught  the  sounds 
of  a  child's  merry  voice,  and  knew  that  it  must  be  little 
Evelyn.  Going  down  the  broad  oak  staircase,  he  made  his 
way  to  the  hall,  but,  before  any  painful  recollections  could 
return  to  him,  his  thoughts  were  altogether  diverted  by 
the  eager  welcome  which  he  received  from  every  one  of 
his  cousins.  They  could  not  make  enough  of  him  ;  the  joy 
of  his  return  from  what  they  had  deemed  the  grave  over- 
powered their  natural  shyness.  Taken  up  with  the  anxiety 
to  do  honor  to  the  man  who  had  saved  their  father,  they 
forgot  themselves,  forgot  to  wonder  whether  he  would 
think  them  rustic  and  countriried,  forgot  to  be  afraid  of 
the  courtly  London  gentleman  even  when  most  conscious 
how  different  he  was  from  the  bluff  country  squires  around. 
It  was  worth  all  that  Hugo  had  been  through  to  sit  at  that 
cheerful  supper-table  in  the  old  hall  with  those  happy 
faces  beaming  on  him,  with  Joyce  by  his  side,  with  the 
mother  at  the  head  of  the  table,  anxious  and  careworn,  but 
yet  with  such  deep  relief  on  her  brow. 

Later  on  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  sat  with  him  in  the  north  par- 
lor, and  he  gave  her  a  more  detailed  account  of  his  im- 
prisonment than  he  had  cared  to  give  before  the  rest  of 
the  family.  Then  when  her  questions  had  all  been  an- 
swered, and  there  came  a  momentary  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation, he  raised  his  quiet  gray  eyes  to  her  face  with  the 
question  which  he  had  been  longing  to  put  to  her  ever 
since  his  arrival. 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  351 

"Joyce  has  told  you  of  our  love,  inadame,"  he  began, 
steadying  his  voice  witfe  some  difficulty.  "  Your  welcome 
makes  me  hope  that  you  will  not  wholly  forbid  my  suit. 
Will  you  pardon  me  for  having  spoken  to  her  ere  asking 
your  consent  ?  I  thought  I  should  never  see  her  again — 
I  was  carried  away — I  could  not  keep  silence." 

"I  will  not  say  that  I  did  not  regret  it  at  first,"  said 
Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  smiling.  "  I  deemed  Joyce  over  young. 
But  I  do  not  blame  you  for  speaking  that  day — I  well 
understand  that  you  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  place 
without  telling  her." 

"  Yes,  it  was  that,"  said  Hugo,  eagerly.  "  The  going 
away  forever,  as  I  thought,  and  never  telling  her  that 
'twas  love  of  her  that  made  it  sweet,  that  'twas  love  of  her 
that  gave  me  strength  to  resist." 

"  And  are  you  still  sure  of  your  own  mind  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Wharncliffe.  "  You  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
you  have  doubtless  met  many  women  more  brilliant  than 
my  little  country  maid.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  do 
well,  in  all  seriousness,  to  ask  her  to  be  your  wife  ?" 

"  Of  that  I  could  never  doubt,"  he  said,  eagerly  "  My 
only  doubt  is  whether  I  am  fit  for  her.  I  can  never  forget 
how  in  this  house  I  was  once  a  treacherous  guest,  how  all 
this  misery  hath  been  wrought  by  me." 

Looking  at  him,  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  saw  that  it  was  not 
alone  the  illness  and  the  hardships  of  Newgate  which  had 
made  him  so  many  years  older.  Men  do  not  repent  as 
Hugo  had  repented,  and  yet  bear  no  traces  of  the  agony. 
There  was  something  reverential  in  her  manner  as  she 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"  My  dear  son,"  she  said,  "  did  you  deem  yourself  wholly 
fit,  perhaps  I  might  hesitate.  But  methinks  you  have 
learned  in  these  months  that  which  to  my  mind  makes  all 
the  pain  and  misery  worth  while.  Eight  gladly  shall  I 
intrust  to  you  my  little  maid." 

So  the  next  morning,  when  Joyce  went  out  with  her 
basket  of  grain  to  feed  the  pigeons,  Hugo  strolled  out  into 
the  pleasance.  The  turf  felt  like  velvet  beneath  his  feet, 
the  thick  box  hedge,  with  its  sweet,  indescribable  smell, 
brought  back  to  his  remembrance  the  grassy  walks  in  the 
garden  at  Penshurst;  but  that  morning  even  sorrow  was 
sweet — he  could  think  of  his  friend  as  at  peace,  working 
perhaps  in  some  larger  sphere  and  safe  forever  from  his 
enemies.  Musing  thus,  he  passed  the  willow  arbor  and  the 
sun-dial,  and  made  his  way  along  the  grassy  applc-v.\ilL-. 


352  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Presently  a  whir  of  wings  made  him  look  through  the 
trees  to  the  red-tiled  pigeon-cote.  There  was  a  sudden  dis- 
persion, for  the  pigeons  had  had  their  breakfast,  and  Joyce, 
with  her  empty  basket,  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  walk. 
She  wore  a  white  linen  gown  with  large  puffed  sleeves,  and 
in  her  waistband  she  had  fastened  a  little  bunch  of  prim- 
roses; her  sunny  hair  was  hidden  by  a  blue  French  hood, 
all  but  the  curls,  which  invariably  strayed  over  her  rounded 
forehead.  She  saw  him  and  smiled,  and  the  beautiful  color 
rose  in  her  cheeks. 

As  he  watched  her  framed  in  that  sweet  vista  of  green 
grass,  and  overarching  trees  laden  with  pink  and  white 
blossom,  he  knew  that  for  him  there  could  be  in  the  whole 
world  no  fairer  sight.  They  met  without  a  word,  with  only 
one  long,  silent  embrace.  Then  he  put  her  gently  from 
him,  much  as  he  had  done  on  the  summer  day  in  the  north 
parlor  when  recollections  of  Randolph  had  broken  in  upon 
that  momentary  bliss. 

"  Will  you  spare  me  a  little  time,"  he  asked,  "  now  that 
the  pigeons  are  fed?  There  is  much  that  I  would  fain  say 
to  you." 

"  Then  say  it  here,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  for  this  is  the 
place  of  all  others  I  love  best." 

They  sat  down  on  the  grassy  bank  by  the  side  of  the 
moat,  but  Hugo's  words  did  not  come  readily.  For  the  first 
time  Joyce  felt  a  little  afraid  of  him.  Half  shyly  she  took 
the  primroses  from  her  band  and  fastened  them  in  his 
doublet,  then  made  as  though  she  would  have  taken  them 
away  again. 

"  Do  you  take  back  your  gifts  ?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"No;  but  you  shall  have  other  flowers— violets,  ane- 
mones; but  not  primroses.  They  make  me  think  of  the 
time  beneath  the  elms  when  I  did  not  know  you.  Dear 
love!  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  that  cold  greeting.  I 
ohall  ever  hate  the  sight  of  primroses." 

"  Nay,  hate  them  not,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  And,  in  truth, 
they  meet  my  case  right  well.  Do  you  know,  my  heart, 
the  lines  which  the  poet  Carew  wrote  on  the  primrose  ?" 

Joyce  did  not  know  them  ;  the  only  poets  she  knew  were 
Milton  and  Shakespeare.  She  listened  intently  while  her 
lover  repeated  the  sweet  old  poem  : 

,.  "Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  firstling  of  the  infant  year  ; 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose  all  bepearled  with  dew ; 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  353 

I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 

The  sweets  of  love  are  washed  with  tears. 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  doth  show 

So  yellow  green,  and  sickly  too  ; 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 

And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 

I  must  tell  you  these  discover 

What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover." 

"  Tis  beautiful ;  but  what  have  you  to  do  with  doubts 
and  fears  ?"  said  Joyce.  "  You  may  lay  aside  all  fear  of 
pursuit  for  to-day,  at  least.  And  the  doubts  and  fears  of 
a  lover  !  Why,  Hugo,  you  can  never  have  those.  Have  I 
ever  given  you  cause  to  be  troubled  with  those  ?" 

There  was  such  a  heavenly  light  in  her  eyes  raised  to  his, 
such  exquisite  tenderness  in  the  dimpled  face,  with  its 
tiny  mouth  and  rounded  cheeks,  that  it  was  all  Hugo  could 
do  not  to  fold  her  once  more  in  that  close  embrace. 

"  Dear  love,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  "there  is  no  need 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  all  my  heart,  that  I  have  loved 
you  ever  since  our  first  meeting.  But  it  is  but  fitting  that 
you  should  once  more  gravely  consider  whether  you  do 
well  to  give  yourself  to  me.  Kemember  that  you  are  now 
free — free  as  ever — for  my  letter  writ  in  Newgate  unloosed 
you  from  any  promise  you  made  before.  Your  mother 
gives  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  thus  openly;  will  you 
listen?" 

"  Why  would  you  wish  me  to  ?"  asked  Joyce,  looking 
frightened. 

"  For  your  own  sake,  my  heart.  Because  I  can  not  bear 
to  think  that  in  a  hasty  moment,  or  from  a  generous  im- 
pulse, or  perchance  from  some  false  notion  that  I  had  done 
aught  for  your  father,  you  should  give  me  the  rich  treasure 
of  your  love,  and  hereafter  live  to  repent  it." 

She  put  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

"  I  will  not  let  you  say  such  things !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  mingled  indignation  and  tenderness. 

"  Nay,  hear  me  out,"  he  said,  kissing  her  fingers  as  he 
drew  them  down.  "  You  must  dismiss  from  your  mind 
all  the  sweet  charity,  all  the  tender  excuses  you  have 
hitherto  made  for  me  ;  you  must  consider  whether  you  are 
in  very  truth  willing  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was  once 
guilty  of  a  grave  crime —  whether  you  are  willing  to  share 
with  him  exile,  and  perchance  disgrace.  My  dear  one, 
my  dear  one,  how  can  I  bear  the  thought  of  this  for  you  ? 
You  who  ought  to  have  the  bravest,  the  most  unsullied, 


354  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.' 

heart  in  exchange  !  Oh !  Joyce,  love  is  not  all  joy,  it  is 
pain — bitter  pain !  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  "  that  is  true  ;  but 
the  pain  is  not  all  on  your  side,  Hugo." 

"  Then  think  it  calmly  over,  as  I  would  have  you  do," 
he  cried.  "  Tell  me,  an  you  will,  that  I  had  better  go 
hence.  You  shall  never  be  sacrificed  to  some  impulse  of 
pity,  some  wish  to  spare  me  suffering." 

"  Do  you  think  that  to  send  you  hence  would  make  me 
happier  ?"  she  asked.  "  When  '  I  am  myself  my  own 
fever  and  pain,'  as  you  sung  last  night.  Oh,  Hugo,  when 
will  you  understand  that  I  love  you !  Methinks  the  pain 
of  love  is  the  pain  of  one's  own  un worthiness." 

"  Make  me  pure  as  your  own  sweet  self!"  he  cried. 

But  she  silenced  him  with  a  kiss.  And  thus,  by  the 
side  of  the  moat,  and  under  the  apple-blossoms,  they 
sealed  their  betrothal. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

AN  UNEXPECTED   AEKIVAL. 

What  ?     Ill  love  !    I  sue  !    I  seek  a  wife  ! 

Love's  Labor's  Lost. 

LATE  that  afternoon  Damaris  and  Robina,  returning  from 
a  farewell  visit  to  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  emerging  from 
the  ash-walk,  were  surprised  and  alarmed  to  see  a  stranger 
riding  through  the  park.  He  reined  in  his  horse  at  sight 
of  them,  pausing  by  the  second  gate  which  opened  on  to 
the  bridge.  Damaris  was  a  brave  girl,  but  she  was  very 
much  frightened,  for  she  thought  the  stranger  might  have 
come  in  search  of  Hugo.  She  even  feared  it  might  be 
Randolph  himself.  On  nearer  view,  however,  she  was  re- 
assured as  to  this  last  terror  ;  but  her  manner  was  cold  and 
distant  as  she  offered  to  open  the  gate  for  the  new-comer. 
Rather  to  her  dismay,  he  hastily  dismounted. 

"Do  not  dream  of  troubling  yourself,"  he  said  with  more 
show  of  gallantry  than  she  liked.  " In  truth,  I  did  but 
pause  to  ask  you  whether  this  is  indeed  Mondisfield  Hall." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  she  replied,  coldly,  "  this  is  Mondisfield.  But 
my  father  is  absent." 

"  So  I  am  informed,  but  my  errand  is  not  with  him,  but 
with  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe."  The  stranger  smiled. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  355 

Damaris  trembled.  Her  worst  fears  were  confirmed. 
Hugo's  escape  had  then  been  discovered,  and  this  gentle- 
man— in  all  probability  a  constable  in  disguise — had  come 
to  bear  him  back  to  jail. 

"  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe  ?"  she  asked,  doubtfully,  gaining 
time  for  thought,  and  also  deferring  the  evil  day. 

"  Ay,  Hugo  Wharncliffe.     He  is  here,  is  he  not"  ?" 

"  Who  can  have  told  you  that  he  is  here  ?"  exclaimed 
Damaris.  "  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe  hath  been  in  jail  these 
many  months,  and  we  are  but  lately  informed  that  his  re- 
mains were  to  be  buried  by  Sir  William  Denham  in  one 
of  the  city  churches.  Which  church  was  it  to  be,  Eobina  ?" 

•'  St.  Mary's,"  said  Kobina,  briskly.  "  No,  it  was  not 
though  ;  an  I  mistake  not,  the  messenger  said  'twas  to  be 
in  St.  Clement  Banes." 

The  stranger  laughed  uncontrollably. 

"  Ay,  ay,  his  London  remains  were  interred  with  pomp 
and  solemnity  at  noon  yesterday.  But  the  best  part  of 
him  escaped,  and  should  ere  now  have  arrived  here.  Fair 
maiden,  you  are  very  slow  to  trust  me  !  And  in  good  time 
here  comes  my  friend  to  vindicate  my  character." 

At  that  moment  Hugo  and  Joyce  came  through  the  door- 
way in  the  red  brick-wall  leading  from  the  kitchen-garden 
to  the  bowling-green.  Damaris  turned  pale,  and  in  her 
anxiety  looked  so  lovely  that  Denham  hastened  to  reassure 
her. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid !"  he  cried.  "  I  am  his  friend." 
Then,  as  she  still  looked  troubled  and  perplexed,  he  hur- 
ried forward,  cursing  his  folly. 

"Come,  Hugo,"  he  cried.  "Vindicate  my  honor,  and 
tell  your  fair  kinswoman  that  I  was  one  of  those  who  bore 
you  from  Newgate.  I'  faith !  she  takes  me  for  a  constable 
in  disguise — for  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing — for  a  foe  to  be 
baffled  and  silenced  and  scouted." 

The  two  young  men  greeted  each  other  warmly,  and  then 
followed  the  series  of  introductions,  to  each  of  which  Den- 
ham replied  by  a  sweeping  bow  which  amused  the  country 
girls  and  made  them  slightly  apprehensive  about  their 
courtesies. 

"  And  will  you  pardon  me  for  having  affrighted  you  ?"  he 
asked,  turning  with  one  of  his  humorous  looks  to  Damaris. 

"  You  should  have  spoken  out  plainly  at  once,  sir,"  said 
Damaris,  with  severity. 

Denham  made  a  gesture  of  mock  despair  and  turned 
from  her  to  his  friend. 


356  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  Tell  Mistress  Damaris  tliat  I  henceforth  forswear  the 
sin  of  frivolity  and  idle  jesting,"  he  exclaimed.  "  But, 
odds-fish  !  my  dear  boy,  how  could  I  help  but  continue  in 
a  strain  which  served  so  excellently  to  draw  forth  her  wit 
and  her  beauty."  Then,  as  they  were  out  of  earshot, 
"  Egad,  Hugo,  you  have  surely  made  a  mistake  betwixt 
those  sisters !" 

Hugo  laughed. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so !"  he  replied,  merrily.  "  Go  in 
and  win." 

"  '  I  love  my  love  with  a  D,'  "  quoted  Denham,  "  '  be- 
cause she's  delightsome.  I  hate  her  with  a  D,  because 
she's  disdainful.'  "  Then  leaving  Hugo  and  rejoining  the 
group  on  the  bridge,  "  Fair  Mistress  Damaris,  I  beg  a 
thousand  pardons  for  having  caused  you  any  uneasiness. 
An  I  crave  your  pardon  on  my  bended  knees,  will  you  let 
bygones  be  bygones  ?" 

"Come,"  said  Hugo,  laughing,  "we  will  take  your 
horse  to  the  stable,  and  Bobina  will  apprise  Mrs.  Wharn- 
cliffe  of  your  arrival." 

So  he  and  Joyce  went  away  with  the  steed,  and  Eupert 
and  Damaris  were  left  alone  on  the  bridge  to  make  peace 
as  best  they  could.  Denham  was  enraptured  with  her 
fresh,  healthful  beauty,  and  charmed  with  her  downright 
honesty  and  quiet  self-possession.  She  was  unlike  any 
girl  he  had  seen  before.  The  Puritan  household,  too, 
impressed  him  not  a  little — it  was  all  so  novel;  and,  though 
he  had  to  walk  warily,  Damaris  made  up  for  the  sense  of 
restraint. 

"  I'm  dog-tired,  Hugo,"  he  exclaimed,  when,  at  night,  he 
and  his  friend  found  themselves  alone  together;  "I  have 
walked  delicately  like  Agag,  I  have  been  soft  and  pliable 
as  a  sucking  pig,  a  turtle-dove,  a  Puritan  of  Puritans. 
Never  an  oath  this  whole  blessed  day,  and  yet " — here  he 
relieved  himself  by  a  few  strong  expletives — "yet  the  fair 
Damaris  frowns  on  me — treats  me  as  a  reprobate.  'Tis 
hard !  'tis  cruel  hard !" 

"  Come  out  to  Holland,  and  woo  her,"  said  Hugo.  "  She 
would  make  you  a  right  good  wife." 

Denham  made  a  comical  grimace. 

"  Nay,  matrimony  is  too  solemn  for  me.  'Twould  de- 
press me  ;  'tis  too  grave  a  risk  for  one  of  my  tempera- 
ment." 

"Very  well,  then,  leave  Mondisfield  at  once.  An  you 
trine  with  one  of  my  kinswomen  I'll  never  forgive  you, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  357 

Denham,  not  though  I  owe  you  my  freedom  and  my  happi- 
ness. For,  look  you,  these  are  country  girls,  and — thank 
Heaven  ! — they  are  unused  to  gallantry  and  couct  manners. 
An  you  go  on  making  love  to  Mistress  Damar.is,  she  will 
take  you  at  your  word,  and  perchance  you'll  break  her 
heart  for  her." 

"  Heaven  forbid !"  said  Denham,  devoutly.  "  But  yet 
the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  Hugo,  is  a  thought  which 
terrifies  me.  Where  would  be  the  freedom  I  had  of  yore, 
the  days  with  the  scourers,  the — " 

"  Tiiey  would  be  in  the  past,  and  a  good  thing  too,"  said 
Hugo,  promptly. 

"  But,"  hesitated  Denham,  with  a  comical  dismay  in  his 
face — "  but,  d — n  it  all,  Hugo,  I  fear  she's  a  tongue !" 

"  Ay,  and  one  that'll  keep  yours  in  order,  I  warrant,"  said 
Hugo,  laughing.  "  I'll  dance  at  your  wedding,  Denham  ; 
it's  no  use  your  kicking  against  fate.  Mark  my  words, 
you'll  be  a  Benedick  ere  many  moons  have  waned.  But 
come,  a  truce  to  this  nonsense.  Tell  me  more  of  Randolph. 
Did  he  suspect  naught  ?" 

"  Naught.  We  rode  from  Bishop-Stortf ord  to  London 
grave  as  mutes  at  a  funeral,  though,  luckily  for  me,  at  a 
rattling  pace.  Then,  solemnly  alighting  at  my  father's 
house,  we  made  all  speed  to  see  your  remains,  which  of 
course  had  been  buried  that  morning." 

"  What  said  Randolph  ?" 

"  He  was  closeted  with  my  father  for  some  time,  but  I 
heard  not  precisely  what  passed  betwixt  them.  Only  my 
father  told  me  afterward  that  he  seemed  like  one  crushed 
beneath  a  heavy  load  ;  that  he  assured  him  again  arid  again 
that  he  had  never  ceased  to  care  for  you,  and  had  fully 
meant,  after  a  time,  to  procure  your  release." 

Hugo  sighed.  It  pained  him  terribly  to  be  obliged  to 
allow  his  brother  to  believe  in  his  death. 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  never  be  safe  to  tell  him  ?"  he 
asked,  wistfully. 

"  Why,  Mian  alive !  no !"  cried  Denham,  aghast  at  the  no- 
tion. "  'Twould  bring  half  a  score  of  people  into  trouble, 
and  would  undo  us  all.  He  would  be  so  mad  with  rage 
at  being  duped,  that  he  would  kill  you,  would  challenge 
the  rest  of  us,  would  ruin  Scroop,  and  stir  up  the  very 
devil." 

Hugo  was  fain  to  acquiesce  in  the  truth  of  this  speech. 
But  the  thought  of  his  brother  cast  a  dark  shadow  over  his 
sunny  future. 


358  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

If  we  be  two,  we  two  are  so, 

As  stiff  twin-compasses  are  two  ; 
Thy  soul,  the  first  foot,  makes  no  show 

To  move,  but  does  if  the  other  do. 

And  though  thine  in  the  center  sit, 
Yet  when  my  other  far  doth  roam, 

Thine  leans  and  hearkens  after  it, 
And  grows  erect  as  mine  comes  home. 

Such  thou  must  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  the  other  foot  obliquely  run  ; 

Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 
And  me  to  end  where  I  begun. 

DOCTOR  DONNE. 

So,  after  all,  my  journal  ends  not  in  grief,  but  in  re- 
joicing; not  in  thoughts  of  Hugo's  death,  but  in  the  glad 
news  of  his  return.  For  right  skillfully  his  friends  res- 
cued him  from  jail,  making  as  though  he  were  dead,  and 
then,  free  and  safe  once  more,  he  made  his  way  from 
London  to  Mondisfield,  reaching  us  one  glad  spring  day 
toward  sundown. 

My  dear  love  is  changed.  He  is  much  more  beautiful; 
he  hath  suffered  so  much  that  all  say  he  looks  more  like  a 
man  of  thirty  than  one^not  yet  of  age.  He  has  grown  ter- 
ribly thin,  and  his  brow  seems  broader,  and  his  cheeks 
more  hollow,  and  his  lips  straighter  and  more  spare.  When 
I  first  saw  him  he  seemed  all  eyes,  so  worn  and  wasted  was 
he  with  pain  and  fatigue.  But  there  is  mnch  more  change 
in  him  than  this  change  that  I  chronicle  in  his  features. 
Only  it  is  more  hard  to  put  into  words.  I  suppose  there  is 
nothing  like  solitude  for  teaching  us  that  we  are  not  soli- 
tary, nothing  like  weakness  for  making  us  realize  what 
strength  may  be  ours.  It  seems  to  me  that  Newgate  hath 
done  this  for  Hugo.  He  went  away  a  brave  youth,  showing 
his  repentance  in  deeds  rather  than  in  words.  He  hath 
come  back  a  God-like  man.  What  hath  passed  in  the  in- 
terval no  one  will  ever  know.  And  that  methinks  is  as  it 
should  be,  since  our  Lord  said  men  were  to  be  known  by 
their  fruits,  not  by  chattering  to  all  the  world  about  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  359 

precise  time  and  manner  in  which  the  sap  came  to  tlieir 
branch.  And  the  using  this  simile  reminds  me  of  some 
words  which  Hugo  let  fall  to-day.  I  was  saying  to  him,  as 
we  walked  among  the  woods,  how,  even  in  my  sorrow,  it 
had  made  me  happy  to  see  the  trees  coming  to  life  again 
and  growing  green  after  the  long,  cold  winter. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  yet  they  were  coming  to  life  long  before 
you  saw  any  signs  of  it.  'Tis  in  mid-winter  that  the  sap 
begins  to  rise,  when  the  plants  and  trees  have  had  a  rest, 
and  when,  having  been  forced  for  a  time  to  be  inactive, 
they  are  ready  and  longing  for  more  work." 

"  I  never  thought  the  things  grew  in  the  winter,"  I  said. 

"Trees  and  men,"  he  replied,  smiling.  "'Tis  no  bad 
thing  to  be  for  a  time  bereft  of  all  outward  things.  As 
good  Mr.  Herbert  saith, 

"  '  O  foolish  man,  where  are  thine  eyes  ? 

How  hast  thou  lost  them  in  a  crowd  of  cares  ?' " 

And  then  he  told  me  a  little  about  his  former  life  in 
London,  of  how  he  had  rughed  from  one  study  to  another, 
or  from  one  pleasure  to  another  ;  of  how  happy  his  full, 
free  life  had  been,  until  all  at  once  he  found  himself 
plunged  into  Newgate  with  neither  books  nor  friends,  and 
knew  that  his  happiness  had  all  depended  on  such  outward 
things.  And  then,  he  said,  when  that  worst  time  of  all 
came,  and  he  was  cast  into  a  horrible  dungeon,  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Francis  Bampfield,  with  whom  he  had  lived  the  pre- 
vious month,  kept  returning  to  him. 

"  I  had  not  hearkened  much  to  his  sermons  and  discus- 
sions," he  said,  "for  such  things  never  had  much  attraction 
for  me  ;  but  I  thought  of  his  face,  \\hicb,  spite  of  all  his 
sufferings,  was  the  cheerfullest  you  ever  saw." 

And  so  one  thing  and  another  helped  him,  till  he  learned 
not  to  chafe  at  the  misery  and  loneliness — and  I  fancy  it 
must  have  been  in  that  dungeon  that  he  became  what  he 
now  is.  Not  that  he  said  anything  about  it  in  direct  words, 
but  when  I  asked  him  many  questions  as  to  what  the  dun- 
geon was  like  and  so  forth,  and  then  shuddered  at  his  de- 
scription of  the  cold  and  damp  and  filth — though  I  know 
he  kept  back  the  worst  details  from  me — then  he  said  that 
he  would  not  have  me  sickened  by  the  thought  of  his 
hardships,  which  might  be  put  into  words,  while  the  com- 
fort he  had  had  never  could  be  told.  And  a  most  beauti- 
ful look  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  said  that,  spite  of  the 
wretchedness,  which  he  allowed  had  been  very  great, 


360  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

some  of  the  happiest  moments  of  his  life  had  been  spent 
there. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  "  lose  my  eyes  in  a  crowd  of  cares," 
but  indeed  there  is  so  much  on  hand  just  now,  such  a  rare 
stir  and  bustle  and  excitement  in  our  usually  quiet  life, 
that  it  is  a  little  hard  to  make  time  to  think.  However,  I 
shall  try,  else  I  can  never  be  fit  to  be  Hugo's  wife. 

What  with  packing  and  tidying,  putting  the  house  in 
order,  laying  by  the  china,  and  making  preparations  for 
the  journey,  the  days  seem  very  full,  and  then  there  is 
Rupert  Denham  in  the  house,  who  contriveth  to  waste 
much  of  our  time,  which,  however,  we  can  not  grudge  him, 
when  we  remember  all  that  he  hath  done  for  us.  I  like 
him,  he  is  so  merry  and  full  of  fun,  and  so  devoted  to 
Hugo.  I  said  to  him  to-day  that  they  seemed  more  like 
brothers  than  friends;  and  at  that  he  grew  quite  grave  all 
in  a  minute,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"Fair  Mistress  Joyce,  do  you  think  there  is  indeed  any 
chance  that  we  may  one  day  be  brothers  indeed  ?" 

Which  speech  put  me  to  the  blush  ;  for  I  saw  at  once 
what  he  meant,  since  no  one  can  help  but  know  that  he 
greatly  admires  our  Damans.  And,  since  the  descendants 
will  perhaps  wish  to  know  the  outcome  of  this  love-tale  as 
as  well  as  of  mine,  I  shall  take  the  journal  with  me  and 
finish  it  in  Holland. 

Amsterdam,  September,  1684. 

At  last  I  can  find  time  to  write,  and  must  indeed  make 
all  speed  to  do  so  before  the  freshness  of  things  passes 
from  my  mind.  And  yet  I  do  not  think  anything  that  has 
passed  this  happy  time  will  fade  away  from  my  memory. 
The  leaving  Mondisfield  was  sad,  but  yet  I  could  not 
but  feel  that  we  should  return  some  day,  and  that 
helped  to  lessen  the  pain  of  leaving.  We  all  set  out 
at  dawn  one  cold  April  morning,  wishing  to.  make  as 
much  progress  that  day  as  possible,  my  mother  and  we  five 
elder  ones  inside  the  coach,  and  little  Evelyn  behind  with 
nurse  and  Tabitha,  while  Hugo  and  Rupert  rode  on  in 
front,  coming  now  and  again  to  the  windows  to  ask  how 
we  fared.  How  slowly  the  old  family  coach  rumbled 
along  ?  And  as  we  got  further  from  home,  and  specially 
when  the  twilight  began  to  gather,  my  -mother  looked  so 
anxious  and  nervous  that  even  the  girls  began  to  remem- 
ber all  the  horrible  tales  we  had  heard  of  highwaymen. 

Just  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  road,  when  great  beech- 
trees  over-shadowed  us  on  every  side,  and  my  heart  began 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS,  361 

to  quake,  my  dear  love  rode  up  to  the  coach-side,  and, 
though  it  was  awkward  for  him  to  guide  his  horse  in  so 
narrow  a  way,  rode  alongside  of  us  till  we  were  out  of  the 
wood,  talking  so  briskly  all  the  time  of  other  matters  that  we 
forgot  our  fear,  and  indeed  were  quite  merry  by  the  time 
we  reached  the  town  of  Hadleigh,  where  we  lay  that  night. 

It  made  me  very  happy  to  see  how  my  mother  leaned 
upon  Hugo,  how  she  left  the  management  of  all  to  him. 
There  was  something  about  him  that  always  won  respect 
and  liking  from  strangers,  though  his  manner  was  so  quiet 
that  one  would  have  thought  he  would  have  attracted  no 
notice.  But,  however  it  was,  it  always  came  about  that 
where  Rupert's  orders  were  often  saucily  received  or  per- 
haps neglected,  hostlers,  servants,  landlord,  and  all  waited 
on  Hugo's  slightest  word. 

And  what  care  he  took  of  us  all  the  journey !  I  shall 
always  love  to  think  of  it.  The  second  day  was  bright  and 
sunshiny  as  the  first.  "VVe  set  off  again  early  in  the  morning. 
Rupert  still  continuing  with  us,  since  he  said  he  must  see  us 
safely  on  board  the  vessel  at  Harwich.  He  looked  very  dole- 
ful at  the  prospect  of  the  parting,  and  all  that  'day  kept 
gathering  posies  for  Damaris  and  handing  them  in  at 
the  window  with  so  tragic  an  air  that  I  could  have  found 
it  in  my  heart  to  laugh  had  I  not  felt  rather  sorry  for  him, 
since  Damaris  received  all  his  offerings  with  an  uncon- 
cerned air  that  would  have  tried  the  patience  of  Job — at 
least,  if  he  had  been  in  love  it  would. 

Hugo  brought  flowers  for  the  rest  of  us,  having  no  coy 
lady-love  to  propitiate  with  offerings.  To  my  mother  he 
brought  violets,  to  Betty  cowslips,  to  Frances  primroses,  to 
Robina — who  scorned  anything  so  feminine  as  flowers — an 
enormous  dandelion  which  made  every  one  laugh,  and  to 
me  a  lovely  handful  of  blue-bells  and  delicate  white  star- 
wort,  fringed  round  with  fern-leaves. 

At  noon  we  paused  to  bait  the  horses  and  to  dine.  I  noticed 
then  that  Hugo  looked  very  weary,  but  he  made  light  of 
it,  and,  leaving  Rupert  to  wait  upon  Damaris,  hastened  into 
the  inn  to  give  the  orders,  and  to  see  that  everything  was 
made  comfortable  for  us.  But  when  we  sat  down  to  dine 
he  excused  himself,  and  lay  back  on  the  wooden  settle  in 
the  corner,  looking  so  ill  that  I  was  terrified,  and  ere  long 
he  fell  into  one  of  his  shivering  fits,  and  we  knew  that  he 
was  attacked  once  more  by  the  ague. 

What  a  talking  and  confusion  arose  when  it  was  dis- 
covered !  Every  one  suggested  some  different  remedy  or 


362  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

plan.  Rupert  declared  it  was  impossible  to  proceed,  and 
that  we  must  pass  the  night  at  the  inn,  which  me  thinks 
was  as  much  with  a  view  to  himself  as  his  friend  ;  nurse 
talked  of  herb  tea  and  hot  blankets,  while  the  landlady 
declared  that  a  perfect  cure  for  the  ague  was  to  sit  with 
the  legs  in  a  deep  churn  full  of  hot  milk,  and  to  sip  car- 
duns  posset. 

I  shall  never  forget  Hugo's  face  when  he  heard  this 
remedy  proposed.  He  got  up,  wrapped  his  cloak  round 
him,  took  up  his  hat,  and  ordered  the  horses  to  be  brought 
round.  Then,  when  the  landlady  was  out  of  earshot,  he 
said  to  my  mother, 

"  You  do  not  remember  that  I  am  wholly  unused  to  lux- 
uries of  this  sort.  I  can  not  hear  of  hindering  you  on 
your  journey." 

My  mother  was  much  perplexed,  but,  knowing  that  there 
might  be  some  risk  to  Hugo  himself  if  we  lingered  any 
longer  in  England,  she  allowed  him  to  have  his  way,  only 
insisting  that  he  must  come  inside  the  coach,  and  let  one  of 
us  girls  ride.  He  was  loath  to  do  this,  but  in  the  end  was 
forced  to  consent ;  and  so  it  fell  about,  to  Rupert's  great 
content,  that  a  pillion  was  put  upon  his  horse,  and  that 
Damaris  had  to  ride  to  Harwich  behind  him,  while  Hugo's 
horse,  laden  with  such  gear  as  we  could  fasten  to  the  empty 
saddle,  trotted  behind  the  coach.  I  think  no  one  regretted 
the  change;  I  know  I  was  glad  enough  of  it,  while  Rupert 
became  as  merry  as  a  grig,  and  even  Damaris  relented  a 
little,  and  showed  him  more  kindness  than  she  had  hitherto 
done. 

And  so  all  that  afternoon  we  lumbered  along  slowly 
enough  through  the  country  lanes  and  roads,  Hugo  very 
silent,  and,  I  fear,  suffering  much,  though  he  never  com- 
plained. Once,  when  my  mother  lamented  that  we  had  not 
more  warm  wraps  with  us,  he  said,  with  a  smile,  that  the 
cushioned  seat  of  a  coach  was  Paradise  when  compared 
with  the  damp  stones  of  a  dungeon,  and,  pressing  my  hand 
closely,  that  he  wanted  for  nothing.  Still,  though  he  made 
light  of  all  the  discomforts,  I  did  feel  very  glad  when  the 
lights  of  Harwich  shone  out  in  the  distance,  and  when  at 
length  we  drove  up  the  street  and  halted  at  the  door  of  an 
inn. 

As  Rupert  passed  us  I  saw  that  an  old  man  walked  beside 
his  horse  and  talked  with  him;  then,  as  the  coach  stopped, 
he  hurried  forward,  and  even  in  the  dim  light  I  recognized 
at  once,  from  Hugo's  description  of  him,  that  this  must  be 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  363 

his  dear  old  servant  Jeremiah.  He  was  evidently  much 
distressed  to  see  his  master's  plight,  but  he  said  scarce 
anything  about  it,  from  which  I  gathered  that,  knowing  my 
dear  love  well,  he  has  learned  his  ways,  and  knows  that 
Hugo  dislikes,  of  all  things,  any  stir,  bustle,  or  fuss. 

"  When  doth  the  next  ship  sail  for  Amsterdam  ?"  asked 
Hugo,  leaning  forward  with  flushed  face  and  glittering 
eyes. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  master,"  said  the  old  servant. 

Hugo  looked  much  relieved  on  hearing  this,  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  taken  into  the  inn  without  more  delay,  lean- 
ing hard  on  Jeremiah's  arm,  and  leaving  Rupert  to  see  to 
our  comfort,  which  I  must  say,  he  did  with  the  utmost  zeal. 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  the  right  to  nurse  Hugo.  The 
landlady  at  the  inn,  a  very  kindly  body,  made  me  a  cup  of 
hot  posset  for  him,  and  I  carried  it  up  to  his  chamber, 
where  Jeremiah  received  me  somewhat  doubtfully,  till 
Hugo,  catching  sight  of  his  face,  introduced  me  to  him  as 
his  future  mistress,  whereupon  the  old  man  nearly  made 
me  cry  with  his  pretty  speeches.  He  is  a  dear  old  Puritan 
fellow,  and  was  enchanted  that  his  master  meant  to  take 
to  wife  one  of  the  right  sort,  as  he  expressed  it.  I  only 
wish  I  were  as  good  as  he  seems  to  think  me.  He  left  us, 
at  length,  with  the  remark  that  I  bid  fair  to  be  as  handy  a 
nurse  as  Mistress  Mary  Denham,  and  a  Puritan  to  boot, 
which  he  made  bold  to  say  was  a  great  advantage. 

"  Why  doth  he  not  approve  of  Mistress  Denham  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  She  did  more  for  you  than  I  have  done,  or  can 
hope  to  do." 

"  Jeremiah  likes  her  well,"  replied  Hugo,  "  but  disap- 
proves of  her  gay  dresses,  of  her  dancing,  theatre-going, 
and  so  forth." 

"  Yet  she  is  very  good  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "I  have  good  reason  to  know  that." 

And  then  he  told  me  sundry  things  about  Mary  Den- 
ham which  I  shall  not  set  down  here,  only  they  made  me 
feel  toward  her  as  to  no  other  woman  on  earth;  and  that 
evening  I  wrote  her  a  letter,  which  Eupert  promised  to 
deliver  safely  into  her  keeping.  I  am  grieved  that  the 
letter  she  wrote  me  should  have  been  lost,  but  yet  the 
writing  hath  served  to  prove  to  us  her  generous  love,  and 
some  day,  when  we  return  to  England,  I  hope  to  become 
acquainted  with  her. 

My  dear  love  was  better  the  next  morning,  and  able  to 
bid  a  cheerful  farewell  to  his  friend  and  to  dear  old  Eng- 


364  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAY8. 

:. 

land.  Poor  Rupert  looked  blank  enough;  indeed,  I  thought 
we  should  never  have  got  him  off  the  ship  in  time.  He 
was  the  very  last  to  leave,  and  returned  twice  to  kiss 
Damaris's  hand  before  all  the  people,  which  made  her 
blush  crimson,  yet  I  noticed  that  she  forbore  to  scold 
him,  for  which  I  was  glad,  since  he  looked  so  miserable. 
I  even  began  to  thiiik  that  perhaps  Damaris  cared  for  him 
a  little  bit  in  return  ;  at  least,  she  looked  very  grave  and 
dismal  the  rest  of  the  day,  but,  after  all,  that  may  have 
had  nought  to  do  with  it,  for  most  of  the  passengers  be- 
gan to  look  grave  ere  long,  and  soon  the  deck  of  the  ship 
was  deserted,  and  Hugo  and  I  had  it  all  to  ourselves,  for 
which,  I  fear,  we  were  selfishly  glad.  How  he  enjoyed 
the  sailing !  I  think  I  never  knew  before  how  some  peo- 
ple can  enjoy  till  I  was  with  him ;  and  certainly  I  had 
never  before  realized  what  imprisonment  must  be.  The 
great  expanse  of  rolling  sea,  the  great,  overarching  dome 
of  blue,  the  salt  sea-wind,  the  rapid  motion,  were  all  bliss 
to  him.  The  next  day  we  were  becalmed  for  eight  or 
nine  hours,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  passengers  ;  but 
Hugo  and  I  were  too  happy  to  care  ;  and,  indeed,  storm 
or  calm  was  all  one  to  us,  so  long  as  we  had  each  other. 
At  length,  one  sunny  spring  afternoon,  we  really  reached 
Amsterdam.  I  suppose  the  others  had  found  the  journey 
tedious  ;  it  had  not  been  tedious  to  me,  but,  of  course,  I, 
like  all  the  rest,  was  overjoyed  at  the  thought  of  seeing  my 
father  again. 

It  had  been  impossible  to  apprise  him  of  the  exact  day 
of  our  arrival,  since  all  was  so  uncertain;  so  that,  in  the 
end,  we  took  him  by  surprise,  arriving  at  his  lodging  in 
the  Reiser's  Graft,  and  walking  in  upon  him  at  his  after- 
noon meal.  How  his  face  lit  up  at  sight  of  us  !  And  what  a 
welcome  we  had,  to  be  sure !  The  good  housewife  and  her 
daughter  and  the  maids  all  bustling  about  and  making 
much  of  us,  and  chattering  in  their  outlandish  Dutch 
tongue  till  we  were  well  nigh  deafened.  As  to  our  trunks 
and  other  effects,  they  might  have  been  left  to  the  thieves 
or  lost  on  the  quay  had  not  Hugo  looked  after  them  all, 
making  himself  understood  and  obeyed  somehow,  and  doing 
a  large  share  of  the  fetching  and  carrying  himself,  which 
is  a  way  he  has,  I  see. 

Then,  when  the  first  greetings  were  over,  my  mother  told 
my  father  the  good  news  of  Hugo's  safety,  and  with  that 
he  hastened  out  to  find  him,  and  I,  slipping  my  hand  into 
his,  went  too.  Hurrying  down  the  broad,  shallow  stairs, 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  365 

which  were  washed  so  white  one  almost  feared  to  tread  on 
them,  we  came  upon  one  who  bore  a  large  box  on  his 
shoulders.  My  father  was  passing  him,  taking  for  granted 
that  it  must  be  some  porter,  but  I  checked  him. 

"You  look  for  Hugo,  father,"  I  said,  laughing.  "He  is 
under  this  box  1" 

My  father  turned  with  a  quick  exclamation.  Hugo  set  down 
his  burden,  and,  tossing  back  his  long  hair,  raised  a  slight- 
ly flushed  face  to  my  father's.  I  can  never  forget  the  look 
on  their  faces  as  they  greeted  each  other.  My  father  is, 
as  a  rule,  a  reserved  and  quiet  man,  but  he  was  so  much 
moved  at  sight  of  Hugo,  that  his  customary  manner  wholly 
deserted  him. 

However,  I  know  not  that  I  can  set  down  all  that  passed 
betwixt  them,  neither  can  I  enter  into  details  of  all  that 
happy  time.  True,  we  were  in  exile,  but  then  we  were  to- 
gether. My  father  was  safe,  my  dear  love  alive  and  well, 
my  mother  happy  and  content.  Those  were  sunny  days  for 
us  all,  and  I  shall  ever  love  the  dear  old  city,  with  its  noble 
buildings,  its  sweet,  clean  houses,  which  so  well  repay  the 
daily  washings  of  the  housewives,  its  streets  planted  on 
either  side  with  stately  lime-trees,  and  its  intersecting 
canals  with  their  wealth  of  shipping.  But,  truth  to  tell, 
I  have  no  longer  time  for  writing  of  journals,  for  there  is 
much  needlework  on  hand. 

As  soon  as  Hugo  had  grown  strong  again  he  was  eager  to 
find  some  work  by  which  he  could  support  himself,  and  this 
was  readily  found  for  him,  seeing  that  my  father  hath  made 
many  acquaintances  in  the  place.  Hugo  hath  accepted  a 
post  as  the  secretary  to  the  learned  Professor  Kuysch,  who 
is  a  professor  of  anatomy  and  botany  here,  and  hath  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  my  love,  who  is  precisely  fitted  to  help  him 
in  his  labors,  having  long  been  accustomed  to  men  of  sci- 
ence and  their  ways.  Professor  Euysch  hath  been  very 
kind  to  us,  and  hath  given  Hugo  a  most  liberal  salary.  He 
is  a  fine-looking  man  of  five-and-forty,  and  has  the  most 
charming  daughter,  named  Each  el,  who,  though  she  is  but 
twenty,  can  paint  flowers  and  fruit  as  no  one  else  can  paint 
them.  She  is  already  one  of  our  greatest  friends;  but,  in- 
deed, did  I  once  begin  to  describe  all  the  people  of  Amster- 
dam who  have  been  kind  to  us,  I  should  never  have  done,  and 
since  we  are  already  prepared  for  two  weddings,  with  suspi- 
cions of  a  third  looming  in  the  distance,  I  must  lay  down  my 
pen  and  take  up  my  needle,  else  Hugo  will  have  an  ill-clad 
wife,  and  Damaris  set  up  house  with  unhemmed  table-linen. 


366  IN   THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTEK  XLI. 

THE    "BRILOFT." 

And  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Twelfth  Night. 

A  GREATER  change  than  from  the  quiet  Suffolk  hall  to  the 
busy  foreign  city  can  hardly  be  imagined.  It  speedily 
wrought  a  difference  in  the  quiet  country  girls;  they  be- 
came less  shy  and  retiring,  though  maintaining  to  the  last 
a  certain  freshness  and  simplicity  which  had  a  great  charm. 
In  spite  of  Robina's  protestations  that  they  were  very 
happy  as  they  were,  and  wanted  no  tiresome  men  folk  to 
unsettle  them,  changes  speedily  came  to  the  house  in  the 
Keiser's  Graft.  Rupert  Denharn  lost  no  time  in  sending  to 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  a  formal  request  for  the  hand  of  his 
second  daughter,  and,  after  some  hesitation  and  a  lengthy 
correspondence,  the  father  at  length  consented  to  a  be- 
trothal, his  scruples  being  finally  overcome  by  Hugo's  ar- 
gument that  Rupert  only  wanted  a  good  wife  to  make  him 
all  that  could  be  wished. 

The  city  was  crowded  with  English  refugees,  and 
although  Colonel  Wharncliffe  held  aloof  from  the  more 
revolutionary  paity  among  them,  and  would  give  no  coun- 
tenance to  the  scheme  already  beginning  to  be  discussed 
of  a  rising  in  favor  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  he  was  too 
able  a  man  not  to  be  much  sought  after.  His  house  was 
the  rendezvous  of  the  cleverest  men  in  Amsterdam,  and 
the  marriage  which  Joyce  had  seen  looming  in  the  dis- 
tance was  between  Betty  and  one  of  the  most  frequent 
visitors,  the  son  of  a  certain  Herr  Oylbrook,  a  wealthy 
Dutch  merchant. 

Robina  groaned,  and  voted  the  future  brothers-in-law 
an  intolerable  nuisance  ;  but  she  helped,  nevertheless,  in 
the  busy  preparations  of  that  autumn,  and  behaved  dis- 
creetly at  the  double  wedding  which  took  place  in  De- 
cember, Betty's  marriage  being  delayed  until  the  new 
year. 

The  festivities  were  over,  and  Hugo  and  Denham,  hav- 
ing been  well  content  to  waive  any  ceremonies  not  in  ac- 
cord with  Puritan  decorum,  were  going  home  the  next  day 
from  a  long  afternoon's  skating,  impatient  to  return  to  their 
brides,  when,  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  the  Keiser's 
Graft,  Hugo  paused. 


IN  THE   GOLDEN     AYS.  367 

"  I  ought  to  see  Professor  Buysch,"  lie  said.  "  He  may 
perchance  need  me  to-morrow.  I  will  speak  with  him,  and 
be  with  you  anon." 

"  Where  doth  he  live  ?    Is  it  not  near  the  <  Briloft  ?'  " 

"  Yes,  will  you  walk  on  with  me  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  Buperfc,  with  a  laugh.  "There  is  Damaris 
standing  at  the  window,  and  have  I  not  been  two  hours 
absent  already  ?  But  look  you,  if  you  pass  the  '  Briloft,'  as 
I  think  you  do,  just  call  for  my  bill.  I  was  there  two 
nights,  and  would  fain  bear  a  good  character  in  this  place 
as  one  who  is  never  in  debt." 

Hugo  smiled,  knowing  full  well  that  the  only  opinion  in 
the  city  for  which  Denham  cared  two  straws  was  the 
opinion  of  his  wife.  The  two  friends  parted  unconcernedly, 
Hugo  making  his  way  to  the  professor's  house,  and  en- 
countering the  great  man  on  his  door-step,  elaborately 
scraping  his  boots,  that  the  cleanly  housewife  might  not 
scold  him. 

Spite  of  the  care  of  his  daughter,  Professor  Buysch 
looked  as  if  his  clothes  did  not  belong  to  him.  His  long 
wig  was  pushed  awry,  the  feather  in  his  hat  was  old  and 
draggled,  one  end  of  his  lace  cravat  was  longer  than  the 
other,  and  there  was  about  him  an  air  of  shabby,  careless 
untidiness.  But  his  face  was  fine;  the  features  large  and 
strongly  marked,  the  mouth  firm,  the  chin  very  promi- 
nent, and  the  broad  forehead  furrowed  with  hard  thought. 
He  greeted  Hugo  merrily,  and  would  not  hear  of  his 
returning  to  work  on  the  following  day,  but  bade  him, 
with  a  kindly  smile,  go  home  to  his  pretty  bride,  and  leave 
the  botany  to  take  care  of  itself.  Pleased  and  relieved  by 
this  interview,  Hugo  made  his  way  home  again,  not,  how- 
ever, forgetting  Bupert's  commission. 

As  he  walked  along  the  busy  streets,  which  were 
already  growing  dusk,  with  lights  beginning  to  shine  out 
in  the  windows,  he  wondered  to  himself  whether  any  one 
in  that  great  city  was  as  happy  that  day  as  he  was.  He 
thought  of  his  little  bride,  of  the  happy  future  which  lay 
before  them,  of  his  recovered  liberty,  of  his  congenial  work 
with  Professor  Buysch,  of  his  restored  health.  The  asso- 
ciations of  Amsterdam  were  so  sweet  to  him  that  he  forgot 
as  he  walked  beside  the  canals  under  the  giant  lime-trees, 
that  he  was,  after  all,  an  exile,  that  the  people  who  passed 
by  him  were  not  his  countrymen,  and  that  for  the  present 
he  was  quite  cut  off  from  fulfilling  Sidney's  dream  and 
serving  his  country. 


368  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Such  thoughts  were  not  likely  to  occur  to  him  on  the  day 
after  his  marriage;  his  face  was  all  aglow  with  the  afternoon's 
skating,  his  heart  aglow  with  happiness,  when  he  crossed 
the  street  and  entered  the  "  Briloft,"  a  little  impatient  of 
anything  which  hindered  his  return  to  Joyce. 

The  "  Briloft "  was  a  kind  of  tavern,  the  property  of  a 
•very  wealthy  Anabaptist.  He  was  shown  upstairs  by  one 
of  the  attendants,  and  left  in  a  sort  of  hall  or  ante-cham- 
ber, while  the  servant  went  to  procure  the  bill.  The 
place  was  noted  for  its  quaint  devices,  but  Hugo  had  seen 
them  before,  had  with  Joyce  admired  the  fountains  in  this 
upper  room,  and  listened  to  the  wonderful  chime  of  "  pur- 
selan  dishes,"  which  rung  changes  and  tunes  by  clockwork. 
Hanging  lamps  here  and  there  made  the  place  a  perfect 
fairy  land  ;  but  he  soon  wearied  of  the  glistening  white 
foam  of  the  fountains,  and  the  sweetDess  of  the  chimes, 
and  growing  impatient  of  the  delay,  which  in  truth  had 
been  considerable,  he  determined  to  seek  the  attendant,  and 
remonstrate  with  him  on  his  slowness.  The  man  had  dis- 
appeared into  a  lighted  chamber  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and 
Hugo  made  his  way  to  the  open  doorway  and  walked  into 
what  was  apparently  a  public  sitting-room.  The  servant, 
however,  was  not  there,  and  he  was  just  going  to  retrace  his 
steps,  imagining  the  room  to  be  empty,  when  a  sound  came 
from  the  further  end  as  of  a  goosequill  on  paper,  and, 
glancing  once  more  in  the  direction,  he  made  out  in  the 
dim  candlelight  the  figure  of  a  gentleman  seated  at  a  table, 
writing.  He  drew  a  little  nearer  ;  perchance  it  might  be 
the  manager  making  out  Denham's  bill,  perchance  it  might 
be  a  guest  who  knew  the  ways  of  the  place  and  could  di- 
rect him  ;  he  advanced  some  half  dozen  paces,  then  sud- 
denly halted,  unable  to  go  on  or  to  retreat ;  unable  to  move 
a  muscle,  paralyzed  for  the  time  being  by  the  horror  of  the 
discovery  he  had  made.  For  at  that  table,  directing  a 
folded  letter,  sat  his  brother. 

"  What  time  does  the  post  go  forth  ?"  asked  Kandolph, 
having  heard  steps  in  the  room,  and  taking  it  for  granted 
it  was  but  one  of  the  attendants. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  looked  up  haughtily,  wroth 
at  receiving  no  attention. 

Hugo  had  turned  deathly  pale,  for  in  one  horrible  flash 
of  perception  he  had  realized  what  this  meeting  involved. 
It  meant  the  end  of  his  freedom,  it  meant  separation  fr<  m 
his  wife,  it  meant  danger  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  and  per- 
haps ruin  to  all  who  had  aided  in  his  escape.  But  move 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  369 

he  could  not.  He  stood  rooted  to  tire  spot,  liis  pale  fea- 
tures fixed,  and  revealing  only  by  their  haggard  look  the 
mental  anguish  which  he  endured. 

Eandolph  looked  up,  then  with  a  cry  sprung  to  his  feet. 
In  the  dusky  room,  only  a  few  paces  from  him,  there  stood 
the  last  apparition  which  he  would  have  chosen  to  see.  He, 
as  a  disciple  of  Hobbes,  had  been  wont  to  mock  at  ghost- 
stories;  but  he  mocked  no  longer,  his  heart  beat  so  fast 
that  it  half  choked  him,  he  gasped  for  breath,  clutched  at 
the  table  for  support.  Had  he  not  mourned  over  the 
brother  whom  he  had  practically  murdered,  these  eight 
months  ?  Had  he  not  on  that  spring  day  hastened  to  view 
his  coffin  in  the  vault  of  the  city  church  ?  Had  he  not 
caused  a  tablet  to  be  engraved  to  his  memory,  and  piled 
adjective  upon  adjective  in  the  description  of  his  virtues  ? 
And  now  suddenly  in  this  Dutch  tavern  his  spirit  appeared 
to  molest  him.  He  was  the  more  startled  and  horrified 
because  he  knew  that  there  was  a  reason  why  Hugo's 
ghost  should  seek  him  at  this  particular  time  ;  he  was  on 
the  eve  of  a  duel,  and  he  made  no  doubt  that  his  brother 
had  appeared  to  warn  him  of  his  coming  fate. 

In  an  agony  of  fear  and  remorse  he  was  seized  with  a 
yet  greater  fear  that  the  spirit  would  go  away  without 
speaking  to  him. 

"Hugo  1"  he  gasped,  "Hugo,  for  God's  sake  speak  to 
me." 

Still  there  was  silence,  but  the  face  seemed  to  grow  less 
cold  and  fixed  ;  for  in  truth  Hugo  perceived  from  Ran- 
clolph's  terror  that  he,  like  Joyce  on  first  catching  sight  of 
him,  took  him  for  a  disembodied  spirit.  He  saw  one  last 
hope  of  escape.  Still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  brother 
he  moved  back  a  few  steps. 

"  Stay  !"  cried  Randolph.  "  If  you  have  any  pity  on  me, 
stay  !  Say  at  least  that  you  pardon  me.  I  have  repented, 
Hugo  ;  repented  of  all." 

"  Repentance  should  be  in  deed  rather  than  word,"  said 
Hugo.  To  Randolph's  excited  fancy  his  voice  sounded 
strange  and  hollow. 

"  Only  tell  me  how  I  can  show  it  in  deeds,  and  I  will 
bless  you  forever,"  he  cried. 

"  Swear  on  the  rood,"  said  Hugo,  "  that  you  will  pro- 
cure Colonel  Wharncliffe  a  safe  return  to  his  estate." 

With  a  gesture  of  authority  he  pointed  to  his  brother's 
sword,  and  with  trembling  hands  Randolph  drew  it  from 
its  scabbard. 


370  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"I  swear  upon  the  holy  rood  that  I  will  procure  Francis 
Wharncliffe  a  safe  return  to  his  possessions,  and  never 
more  molest  him  or  his;  so  help  me  God." 

The  strong  man's  voice  was  weak  and  tremulous,  his 
face  was  ashy.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  frightful  anxiety 
Hugo  could  not  help  marveling  at  the  curious  reversal  in 
their  mutual  positions.  That  he  should  command  Ran- 
dolph, that  he  should  assume  that  tone  of  authority,  while  his 
brother  bowed  submissively  to  his  will,  and  even  trembled 
before  him,  this  was  passing  strange!  The  old  spell 
was  so  entirely  broken,  however,  that  although  he  knew  the 
terrible  risk  he  ran{  although  aware  that  the  instant  Ran- 
dolph ceased  to  believe  him  to  be  merely  a  spirit  he  would 
assume  his  former  bearing,  he  felt  no  dread,  no  self-dis- 
trust, no  fear  now  that  his  brother's  will  would  overpower 
his  and  force  him  into  treachery  against  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe.  All  that  was  in  the  far  past;  he  stood  now  calm  and 
intrepid,  chained  to  the  spot,  not  by  the  sudden  shock  of 
surprise  and  horror,  but  by  the  love  for  his  brother,  which 
had  outlasted  all  else. 

"  Tell  me  at  least  that  you  forgive  me  !"  repeated  Ran- 
dolph. "  Do  not  go  without  one  word  of  comfort." 

"  I  forgave  you  long  ago,"  he  replied  quietly,  while  there 
came  over  his  face  a  look  which  made  Randolph  bow  his 
head  and  press  his  hands  hard  over  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  looking  up  once  more 
— "  tell  me  what  fate  awaits  me  on  the  morrow.  I  have 
called  out  John  Southland.  Is  that  the  reason  you  are 
come  ?  Do  you  warn  me  of  death  ?" 

Grief  unspeakable  expressed  itself  in  Hugo's  face;  he 
forgot  everything  save  that  Randolph  stood  in  mortal 
peril  and  had  called  out  a  man  who  had  never  been  known 
to  miss  his  aim.  He  could  no  longer  endure  this  hampered 
intercourse;  he  must  break  through  the  dreary  farce  and 
declare  himself. 

Breathlessly  Randolph  watched  the  sudden  change  which 
came  over  the  face  of  his  brother;  in  the  look  of  grief  and 
distress  he  read  his  approaching  fate,  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  strong  emotion  which  betrayed  itself  in  the  pale 
face,  and  it  was  with  a  suppressed  sob  that  the  spectral 
figure  came  hurriedly  forward  with  outstretched  hands. 
Randolph  recoiled;  but  the  figure  still  advanced,  its  sad 
eyes  fixed  on  him,  haunting  him  in  that  terrible  way  in 
which  they  had  haunted  him  these  many  months.  But 
this  was  no  dream;  in  another  moment  those  chill  hands 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  371 

must  touch  his,  this  death- wraith  was  not  to  be  repulsed. 
He  drew  nearer  and  yet  nearer,  speaking  never  a  word; 
to  Randolph  the  moments  seemed  like  hours,  the  silence 
of  the  room  weighed  him  down  with  a  horrible  oppression, 
the  eyes  which  reproached  him,  just  because  they  were  not 
in  themselves  reproachful,  seemed  to  strike  a  blow  at  his 
heart. 

This  silence  was  intolerable  —  maddening !  Human 
nature  could  endure  it  no  longer.  With  a  cry  he  fell — 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  had  not  those  spectral  hands 
laid  hold  of  him.  He  was  just  conscious  enough  to  be 
aware  of  this  ;  he  felt  himself  guided  down,  and  laid  gently 
on  the  floor  ;  an  interval  of  dimness,  then  the  cold  hands 
were  at  his  throat  untying  his  cravat.  The  horror  of  that 
was  too  much  for  him — he  fainted  away. 

And  now  there  arose  for  Hugo  one  last  struggle.  Should 
he  avail  himself  of  this  momentary  unconsciousness  and 
rush  from  the  "Briloft?"  Should  he  save  himself  and 
leave  his  brother  ?  Should  he  go  back  to  his  little  wife 
and  treat  this  strange  scene  as  though  it  were  but  some 
nightmare  ?  Vividly  there  came  back  to  him  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  very  different  interview  in  a  London  inn  ;  he  re- 
membered the  unspeakable  misery  of  his  return  to  life, 
the  awful  loneliness,  the  helpless  looking  for  one  from 
whom  he  had  been  separated  forever,  the  desolation  that 
had  overwhelmed  him. 

No,  he  could  not  go  and  leave  Randolph  to  this;  the  risk 
was  great,  but  it  was  a  risk  which  must  be  run.  Already 
he  was  struggling  back  to  life;  at  all  costs  he  must  be  re- 
assured and  undeceived. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Hugo,  as  once  more  the  dis- 
tressed look  dawned  in  Randolph's  eyes.  "I  am  no  death 
wraith.  You  were  mistaken;  I  never  died  at  all.  I  sur- 
render myself  to  you  now  as  your  prisoner,  an  you  think 
fit  you  can  bear  me  back  to  Newgate,  only  you  must  first 
suffer  me  to  say  farewell  to  my  wife." 

The  sentence  had  been  quietly  begun,  but  as  he  spoke 
those  last  words  his  voice  shook.  He  folded  his  arms,  and 
stood  silently  waiting  to  hear  his  fate.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  by  any  means,  that  he  had  been  obliged  to 
make  in  a  minute  a  terribly  important  decision,  and  in  this 
instance  he  had,  at  any  rate,  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  quite 
sure  that  whatever  came  of  it  he  had  chosen  right.  No 
doubts  troubled  him  now,  but  the  agony  of  the  suspense 
was  great.  How  would  Randolph  take  this  revelation? 


372  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Would  pride  and  anger  triumph  ?    Or  did  he  indeed  still 
care  for  him? 

Bandolph  stared  at  him  for  some  moments  without 
speaking  ;  then  he  seized  his  hand,  as  though  to  assure 
himself  finally  that  his  eyes  and  ears  were  not  deceiving 
him. 

"  Flesh  and  blood,  you  see,"  said  Hugo,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"  I  do  not  understand !  "  cried  Kandolph.  "  You  arq 
here  in  Amsterdam,  you  did  not  die — you  have  a  wife  1 
How  in  Heaven's  name  did  you  manage  it  all?" 

Hugo  drew  forward  a  chair,  and  sitting  down,  gave  Ran- 
dolph a  detailed  account  of  his  escape  from  Newgate,  oi 
his  illness  on  the  previous  night,  of  the  scene  with  the 
governor,  of  how  they  had  contrived  to  carry  him  to  Sir 
William  Denhams  in  a  coffin,  of  his  ride  to  Bishop-Stort- 
ford,  and  of  how  he  had  only  just  had  time  to  get  into 
hiding  before  Bandolph  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning. 

"  You  did  but  save  yourself  by  the  skin  of  your  teeth," 
said  the  listener,  who  had  followed  the  story  with  breath- 
less interest.  "  Had  I  come  upon  you  at  table,  I  should 
assuredly  have  been  in  such  a  heat  that  you  would  have 
been  carried  back  to  Newgate." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo,  "  I  knew  there  was  no  chance  for  me, 
otherwise  I  could  not  have  borne  to  stay  there  witnessing 
your  remorse." 

"  Then  how,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  it  that  you  do  not 
dread  revealing  the  truth  to  me  now  ?"  exclaimed  Bandolph. 

"  I  do  not  know,  for  I  have  much  more  to  lose." 

"  Why  did  you  not  effect  an  escape  while  I  lay  there  in 
the  swoon  ?" 

"  I  could  not  leave  you  thus,  and  I  knew  that  you  could 
only  harm  me,  since  your  oath  bound  you  to  serve  Colonel 
Wharncliffe." 

"  And  yonr  wife  ?" 

"  You  could  not  harm  her  ;  she  is  Colonel  Wharncliffe's 
daughter — we  were  but  married  yesterday." 

Again  his  voice  trembled  slightly.  Bandolph  continued 
quickly. 

"  Would  it  not  harm  her  if  I  carried  you  off  to  jail 
again  ?" 

Hugo's  lips  turned  white. 

"  I  trusted  you,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  pathos  in  those  three  words  which  could  not 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  373 

fail  to  touch  even  such  a  man  as  Randolph.  He  said  noth- 
ing, but  held  out  his  hand.  Hugo  grasped  it,  and  the  two 
were  reconciled. 

After  that  Randolph  breathed  more  freely,  relapsing, 
indeed,  into  his  usual  manner,  and  refusing  somewhat 
haughtily  to  go  to  the  house  in  the  Keiser's  Graft. 

"I  will  abide  by  my  oath,"  he  said,  "I  will  never  again 
molest  Francis  Wharncliffe,  though  I  came  hither  to  see  if 
I  could  not  get  hold  of  him  by  hook  or  by  crook.  But  he 
is  my  enemy  still,  and  will  ever  be.  How  I  have  cursed  him 
since  I  heard  the  news  of  your  death  !  My  one  consolation 
lay  in  this,  that  it  was,  in  truth,  he  who  had  murdered  you, 
not  I." 

Hugo  thought  this  a  curious  repentance,  but  he  said 
nothing.  There  was  a  pause,  which  he  broke  by  asking 
the  time  of  the  duel. 

"To-morrow  at  sunrise,"  said  Randolph.  "John  South- 
land and  I  fell  out  at  play  last  night." 

"  Can  not  you  patch  up  your  quarrel  honorably,  without 
fighting?" 

"No,  that  is  out  of  the  question." 

"Very  well,  then  I  must  go  out  with  you." 

This  spontaneous  offer  broke  down  Randolph's  pride. 
With  a  keen  pang  he  remembered  bow  he  had  last  looked 
on  Hugo  at  Whitehall,  knowing  that  he  was  leaving  him 
to  go  forth  alone  to  the  most  horrible  punishments  ;  he 
remembered,  too,  another  duel  when  he  had  acted  as  Sir 
Peregrine  Blake's  second,  and  had  spoken  words  which  must 
have  wounded  Hugo  to  the  quick. 

"  You  forgive  me,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  I  own  that  I  need 
forgiveness.  If  only  this  affair  does  not  cost  me  my  life, 
you  shall  see  how  I  will  make  good  the  past  to  you." 

And  thus,  after  arranging  for  the  morrow,  they  parted, 
Hugo  in  the  end  forgetting  Denham's  bill  which  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  coming  to  the  tavern.  He  was  greatly 
shaken  by  all  that  he  had  been  through  ;  he  walked  the 
streets  of  Amsterdam  like  one  in  a  dream,  hardly  knowing 
whether  he  were  relieved  or  burdened  by  this  strange 
interview.  Joyce  had  been  watching  for  him  and  flew 
down  stairs  to  open  the  great  door  and  welcome  him,  but 
something  in  his  face  frightened  her.  He  caught  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"What  is  it,  dear  heart?"  she  asked.  "What  makes  you 
so  pale  and  worn  ?  Hath  Professor  Ruysch  quarreled  with 
you  ?  What  has  happened  ?" 


374  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

He  did  not  reply  till  they  had  reached  their  room,  then 
his  calm  gave  way.  The  danger  past  he  realized  how  great 
had  been  the  peril,  how  awful  the  anxiety,  how  priceless 
were  the  treasures  of  love  and  life  and  freedom.  Gradually 
Joyce  drew  from  him  all  that  had  happened.  Long  ago 
she  had  ceased  to  feel  harshly  toward  Randolph,  the  others 
might  occasionally  drop  some  word  of  strong  dislike,  or 
severely  censure  the  family  foe,  but  Joyce,  never.  For 
Christ's  commands  are  never  impossible,  and  an  enemy 
really  prayed  for  becomes  in  time  beloved. 

"  If  he  is   wounded   on  the    morrow,"  she  said,  gently, 
"  if,  as  you  fear,  it  should  go  against  him,  then  bring  him 
here,  Hugo." 
And  Hugo  promised  that  he  would., 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

KECONCILED. 

But  justice,  though  her  dome  she  doe  prolong, 
Yet  at  the  last  she  will  her  owne  cause  right. 

SPENSER. 

NATUKALLY  enough,  the  news  caused  not  a  little  pertur- 
bation in  the  family;  Joyce  who  was  more  nearly  concerned 
than  the  others,  took  it  all  far  more  quietly;  but  then  she 
was  much  under  her  husband's  influence,  and  saw  things 
from  his  point  of  view.  Her  chief  anxiety  was  now  for 
Randolph's  safety.  Hugo  had  gone  forth  at  dawn  looking 
terribly  anxious,  and  since  then  Joyce  had  become  so 
firmly  convinced  that  Randolph  would  be  brought  back 
wounded  that  she  had  made  ready  a  room  for  him,  put 
new  sheets  of  her  own  spinning  upon  the  bed,  and  placed 
ready  to  hand  all  that  she  thought  might  be  needed  by  the 
leech. 

Then  she  stationed  herself  at  the  window  to  watch.  It 
was  a  cold,  gray  winter's  morning ;  the  church  bells 
sounded  loud  and  clear,  but  they  had  to-day  a  melancholy 
cadence  ;  at  least  she  fancied  so,  although  but  yesterday 
they  had  seemed  like  the  faint  echoes  of  her  great  joy. 
Two  half -frozen-looking  robins  were  flying  from  twig  to 
twig  of  the  trees  opposite  ;  venders  of  fish  and  fruit  went 
by  with  heavy  baskets  hanging  from  the  wooden  yoke 
round  their  shoulders  ;  bustling  housewives  hurried  to  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  375 

market,  wearing  great  flapping  hats,  little  round  capes, 
and  hoops  in  their  skirts.  Joyce  saw  this  in  a  kind  of 
dream,  while  all  the  time  her  thoughts  were  far  away.  She 
thought  much  of  her  husband,  she  recalled  vividly  her 
first  sight  of  him,  when  he  had  tripped  up  Sir  Peregrine 
Blake  and  freed  her  from  his  unwelcome  attentions.  She 
thought  of  that  duel  two  years  before,  and  of  the  great 
changes  wrought  by  it.  She  wondered  much  whether  this 
duel  would  be  as  fruitful  of  results. 

All  at  once  she  sprung  to  her  feet  ;  for,  looking  down 
the  street,  she  caught  sight  of  a  litter  being  borne  by 
four  men.  Her  husband  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  ;  she 
hurried  down  terribly  frightened,  and  was  glad  enough  to 
encounter  her  old  nurse  on  the  stairs. 

"Whither  away,  honey?"  said  the  nurse,  caressingly. 
"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Gome  !"  she  cried,  breathlessly.  "  Come  and  help,  here 
is  my  husband's  brother  wounded." 

She  threw  open  the  door ;  the  bearers  seemed  in  some 
doubt,  but  had  come  to  a  standstill. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  explained  quickly,  in  Dutch.  "  It  is  all 
right,  it  is  my  brother-in-law — bring  him  in." 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  met  those  of  the  wounded  man  ; 
he  was  past  speaking,  bat  she  read  in  his  expression  that 
he  longed  to  protest  against  being  carried  into  this  house. 

"  You  will  not  mind,  you  will  come  here  for  Hugo's 
sake,"  she  said,  bending  over  him.  The  troubled,  agonized 
look  deepened,  but  he  seemed  reluctantly  to  assent,  and 
the  bearers  took  him  to  the  chamber  which  Joyce  had  made 
ready. 

The  nurse  fetched  strong  restoratives,  and  in  a  little  time 
he  recovered  himself  enough  to  speak. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Joyce,  and 
apparently  forgetting  that  she  had  spoken  to  him  as  he 
was  borne  into  the  house. 

"  I  am  your  sister,  Joyce,"  she  said,  quietly. 

And  then,  because  he  looked  so  ill  and  miserable,  and 
because  he  belonged  to  Hugo,  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  him  shyly  on  the  cheek. 
He  turned  away  with  a  groan. 

Joyce  knew  his  face  well,  it  had  stamped  itself  upon 
her  brain  on  that  terrible  summer  day  in  the  hall  at  Mon- 
disfield.  But  she  saw  now,  \vhat  she  had  been  unable  to 
see  then,  that  certain  outlines  of  his  face  bore  no  little  re- 
semblance to  Hugo.  The  expression  had  been  so  different 


376  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

that  she  had  never  till  now  noticed  it — it  deepened  her 
grief  for  him,  and  intensified  her  pity.  She  felt,  as  she 
had  never  deemed  it  possible  she  should  feel,  that  he 
really  was  her  brother. 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  came  over  Hugo's  troubled  face  as 
he  entered  with  the  leech  whom  he  had  been  to  summon, 
and  caught  sight  of  his  wife  in  her  new  character  of  sick- 
nurse.  But  he  made  some  excuse  to  draw  her  away  from 
the  alcove. 

"  You  must  not  stay  while  the  leech  is  at  his  work,"  he 
said.  "  Already  you  are  looking  pale  and  tired,  as  though 
you  had  not  breakfasted." 

"  Not  more  so  than  you,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "  The  duel 
went  against  him,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  all  over  in  less  time  than  I  can  tell  you  of 
it.  John  Southland  never  yet  missed  his  man.  I  knew 
Randolph  had  not  a  chance." 

"  But  the  leech  may  cure  him,"  said  Joyce. 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Hugo,  sadly. 

His  foreboding  proved  to  be  true.  The  leech  tortured 
the  wounded  man  for  an  hour  or  so,  then  gave  him  up, 
and  told  him  bluntly  that  there  was  no  hope  for  his  life. 
Both  surgery  and  manners  were  rough  in  those  days. 

Randolph  was  too  strong  a  man  not  to  take  the  news 
calmly,  he  had  far  too  much  of  the  Wharncliffe  reserve 
to  say  one  word  of  regret  to  his  brother,  or  to  utter  one 
complaint ;  whatever  the  state  of  his  mind  he  was  not 
likely  to  betray  it  to  any  living  being,  but  Hugo  took 
some  comfort  by  his  quick  recollection,  spite  of  his  weak- 
ness and  suffering,  of  the  oath  he  had  made  on  the  pre- 
vious night. 

"Fetch  hither  your  inkhorn,"  he  said,  when  Hugo  re- 
turned from  bidding  the  leech  farewell.  "  I  must  write  at 
once  to  the  king,  else  will  you  still  have  to  remain  in  exile. 
Also  I  will  ask  him  to  grant  a  safe  return  to  Francis 
Wharncliffe." 

Hugo  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  wrote,  at  his 
brother's  dictation,  such  a  letter  as  could  hardly  fail  to 
procure  pardon  for  both  of  them,  unless  it  chanced  to  find 
the  king  in  an  ill-humor.  Should  this  happen  he  feared 
that  Scroop  and  the  Denhams  might  get  into  trouble,  and 
this  made  him  suggest  a  new  idea  to  Randolph. 

"  You  see,"  he  began,  "  it  will  at  once  be  known  that 
Sir  William  Denham  is  compromised  by  my  escape.  How 
would  it  be,  think  you,  to  send  this  letter  to  London  by 


IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS.  377 

Rupert  Denliam,  and  let  Sir  William  himself,  if  lie  thinks 
well,  bear  it  to  the  king,  seeking  a  fit  opportunity  ?" 

"  'Tis  not  an  ill  thought,"  said  Randolph.  "  The  king  is 
fond  of  him  and  respects  him  as  a  man  of  science.  How 
comes  Rupert  Denham  here  ?" 

"  He  is  but  lately  married  to  Damaris,  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe's  second  daughter." 

"  Denham  married ! — and  to  a  Puritan  maid  !  Good 
God !  is  the  world  coming  to  an  end  ?"  said  Randolph, 
astonished  and  amused. 

"  There  are  Puritans  and  Puritans,"  said  Hugo,  smiling. 
"  Also  Denham  is  not  what  he  once  was.  It  would  be  ask- 
ing a  great  deal  of  him  to  Jeave  his  bride  and  hasten  to 
England,  and  yet  I  think  he  would  do  it." 

"  He  would  do  it  for  you,"  said  Randolph,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness  in  his  tone  ;  "  any  one  would  do  any  thing 
for  ycfl£.  Am  not  I  sacrificing  the  wish  of  a  lifetime,  and 
helping  my  bitterest  foe  for  your  sake?  Here  have  I 
plotted  and  planned  for  years,  yet  in  the  end  all  my  hopes 
are  defeated  by  you — I  am  conquered  by  you !"  There 
was  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  contempt  and  admiration 
in  the  last  word  ;  it  was  as  though  the  two  sides  of  Ran- 
dolph's character  were  struggling  together  and  neither 
could  obtain  the  mastery. 

"  You  are  not  conquered  by  me,  but  by  God,"  said  Hugo, 
speaking  with  a  great  effort. 

"  God  is  out  of  fashion,  Hobbes  is  all  the  rage,"  said 
Randolph,  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  And  after  that  he  re- 
lapsed into  silence.  Hugo  mused  sadly  over  his  words. 
He  mused  over  Hugo's. 

The  shaking  signature  of  the  wounded  man  was  duly  af- 
fixed to  the  letter,  and  that  very  day  Denham  set  sail  for 
England.  He  fully  realized  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  and 
willingly  undertook  the  work  for  his  friend,  knowing  that 
there  was  no  one  else  who  could  manage  it  so  well.  Damaris 
cried  her  heart  out,  but  would  not  for  the  world  have  kept 
her  husband  back.  And  in  fact  she  was  not  much  worse  of 
than  Joyce,  since  Hugo  scarcely  left  his  brother  night  or  day ; 
and  when  for  brief  moments  she  did  see  him  alone  he  was 
sad  and  harassed  and  preoccupied.  Had  she  not  been  able  to 
help  him  in  nursing  Randolph  she  would  have  been  misera- 
ble; but  luckily  the  sick  man  had  no  objection  to  her  pres- 
ence, and,  although  she  did  not  in  the  least  know  it,  she 
had  great  influence  with  him.  He  would  lie  for  hours 
watching  her,  as  she  sat  just  outside  the  alcove  with  her 


378  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

needle-work;  lie  saw  how  slie  followed  Hugo  about  \yith 
her  eyes,  how  sweet  was  her  face  and  how  tender  her  voice 
when  she  spoke  to  him,  how  quietly  and  unobtrusively  she 
made  arrangements  for  him,  laid  cunning  little  plots  to 
tempt  him  to  rest  or  to  eat,  and  allowed  him  to  take  the 
lion's  share  of  the  nursing,  though,  woman-like,  she  longed 
to  have  it  all  her  own  way. 

He  became  very  careful  of  the  language  he  used  in  her 
presence.  He  admitted  to  himself  that  Hugo  was  right, 
and  that  there  were  Puritans  and  Puritans.  He  remem- 
bered with  keen  remorse  how  terribly  he  had  made  Joyce 
suffer.  He  wondered  much  whether  she  had  forgiven  him. 
One  day  Hugo,  after  a  long  night's  watching,  fell  asleep 
in  his  chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Joyce,  stealing  noiselessly 
into  the  alcove,  spread  a  fur  rug  over  him. 

"  You  are  not  ashamed  to  be  fond  of  your  husband," 
remarked  Randolph,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 
"  An  you  go  to  court  on  your  return,  you  had  better  not 
show  it  so  plainly,  else  you  and  he  will  be  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  place." 

For  a  minute  Joyce  m  ade  no  reply,  and,  chafed  by  her 
silence,  he  said  bitterly. 

"  Ah,  it  is  all  very  well  now,  but  by  and  by  you  will  find 
that  he's  not  the  only  fine  young  spark;  then  you'll  look 
on  marriage  with  other  eyes." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  sweet  scorn  not  to  be  de- 
scribed in  words;  but  perhaps  realizing  that  he  was  ill, 
and  remembering  how  sad  was  the  description  her  mother 
had  given  her  of  his  past  life,  her  eyes  grew  pitiful,  and 
she  said,  with  quiet  dignity,  as  if  making  excuse  for  him, 

"  I  see  you  know  just  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

Randolph  was  silent.  In  all  his  life  no  one  had  spoken 
to  him  in  such  a  way.  He  flushed  deeply,  but  not  with 
anger  or  resentment.  Joyce,  finding  the  silence  uncom- 
fortable, added, 

"  And  though  I  do  not  think  I  would  mind  being  made 
a  laughing-stock  of  for  that  reason,  yet  I  do  not  believe 
we  shall  be  at  the  court  more  than  can  be  helped." 

"  Has  Hugo  spoken  of  your  return  to  England  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  once  he  said  a  few  words  about  it,  just  after  Ru- 
pert had  sailed." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  What  sort  of  a  life  would  he  lead  ? 
When  I  am  dead,  you  know,  he  will  be  next  heir  to  Mon- 
disfield." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it ;  but  he   would   not,  I  think,  live   at 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  379 

Mondisfield  in  my  father's  lifetime.  He  said  something  of 
being  called  to  the  bar,  and  living  quietly  in  London; 
then  Damaris  and  I  shall  be  near  each  other,  and  I  shall 
learn  to  know  Mistress  Mary  Denham  and  the  little  Duchess 
of  Grafton,  and  Mr.  Evelyn  and  his  daughter.  I  should 
like  to  live  in  London." 

"  Hateful  place  !"  said  Randolph,  bitterly. 

"  Is  it  hateful  ?"  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

Something  in  her  innocence  and  childlikeness  softened 
him  ;  he  smiled  a  little  as  he  looked  into  her  clear  blue 
eyes. 

"  It  will  not  be  hateful  to  you,  my  little  sister,"  he  said, 
kindly  ;  "  a  place  is  what  you  yourself  make  it." 

Hugo  stirred^ki  his  sleep,  she  glanced  round. 

"  We  must  talk  more  softly.  I  want  him  to  sleep,  for  he 
looks  weary." 

"  Yet  he  tells  me  he  is  stronger  again,  and  hath  had  no 
return  of  the  ague  of  late." 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  "  it  is  true,  he  is  better,  but  they  say 
that  he  will  always  feel  the  effects  of  what  he  has  been 
through.  He  never  can  be  quite  what  he  was  before  New- 
gate." 

She  had  so  fully  and  freely  forgiven  Randolph  that  she 
forgot  at  the  moment  that  her  words  would  convey  to  him 
any  reproach. 

"  Joyce,"  he  said,  taking  her-Land — "  Joyce,  can  you  ever 
forgive  me  the  suffering  I  wrought  for  you  both  ?" 

Then  Joyce,  in  her  sweet,  unconscious  way,  told  him  how 
she  had  begun  by  hating  him,  and  how  her  mother  had 
first  made  her  sorry  for  him,  and  then  that,  somehow — but 
she  could  not  tell  the  manner  of  it — love  and  forgiveness 
had  sprung  up  in  her  heart  for  him. 

"Tell  me,  little  sister,"  he  said,  when  she  paused,  "tell 
me,  is  there  aught  that  I  can  do  now  to  pleasure  you  or 
him  ?  Is  there  aught  that  can  make  up  in  the  slightest  for 
the  past?" 

"There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  you  to  do,"  said  Joyce, 
promptly.  "  The  leech  says  you  might  be  borne  into  the 
next  room.  I  should  like  you  to  see  my  father  and  the  rest 
of  us;  I  should  like  you  to  learn  at  last  what  my  father  is." 

Randolph  frowned.  She  could  not  have  suggested  any- 
thing more  distasteful  to  him;  however,  he  would  not  go 
back  from  what  he  had  said,  and  consented  the  next  day  to 
be  carried  into  the  parlor. 

And  thus,  strangely  enough,  his  last  ho*irs  were  spent  in 


380  IN  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  household  of  his  lifelong  foe,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
learned,  as  Hugo  had  learned  in  the  gallery  at  Mondisfield, 
the  charm  of  that  family  life.  After  the  first  plunge  he 
made  no  more  objections,  and  was  carried  daily  into  the 
family  sitting-room.  He  did  not  suffer  much,  but  just  died 
by  inches,  as  is  sometimes  the  way  with  strong  men. 
Every  day  the  leech  said,  "  This  will  certainly  prove  the 
last,  the  patient  loses  strength  rapidly." 

But  still  he  lingered  on,  clinging  to  life  in  a  way  which 
astonished  every  one. 

One  afternoon  his  strong  reserve  melted  a  little,  and, 
turning  to  Hugo,  he  said, 

"  I  had  great  power  over  you  once,  Hugo.  I  could  make 
you  do  almost  anything  ;  it  was  just  by  the  force  of  my 
will  I  could  do  it.  You  marvel,  all  of  you,  why  I  linger  so 
long  in  this  wretched  plight.  I  will  tell  you — it  is  because 
I  will  not  die.  I  mean  to  live  till  Denham  comes  back  with 
the  king's  message." 

"  You  must  not  disturb  yourself,  even  if  his  majesty  will 
not  grant  your  request,"  said  Hugo  ;  "  for,  see  here,  we 
are  no  worse  off  than  we  were  before  you  came  to  Amster- 
dam. The  city  will  not  give  us  up ;  we  are  quite  safe 
here." 

"  I  know  it,  but  I  would  fain  have  you  return,"  said 
[Randolph,  sighing.  "  You  were  meant  to  be  something 
other  than  clerk  to  a  Dutch  professor." 

"  If  we  do  return,"  said  Hugo,  musingly,  "  I  shall  live  in 
retirement.  All  public  life  is  closed  to  me  until  the  tide 
turns.  But  I  think  it  will  turn  ere  long.  Things  can  not 
go  on  as  they  are." 

"Which  means  that  when  his  majesty  and  the  Duke  of 
York  had  passed  off  the  scenes,  you  would — " 

"  I  should  endeavor  to  follow  in  the  steps  of  him  who 
was  martyred  last  year.  Should  try  to  get  into  Parlia- 
ment, should  spend  my  life,  so  far  as  might  be,  in  working 
for  the  good  of  the  people." 

"  Gallant  sentiments,"  said  a  merry  voice  in  the  door- 
way, "  brave  words,  mine  Hugo,  and  just  like  yourself." 

"  What,  Denham  !"  exclaimed  both  the  brothers,  in  a 
breath.  Hugo  sprung  forward  to  meet  him,  the  dying 
man  half  raised  himself  with  a  momentary  return  of 
strength,  while  the  old  peremptory  tone  came  back  to  his 
voice.  % 

"  What  news  do  you  bring  ?"  he  asked,  impatiently. 

But  he  had  to  wait  for  an  answer,  for  Damafis  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  PAYS.  381 

heard  her  husband's  voice,  and  came  running  in  from  the 
next  room  to  greet  him,  while  little  Evelyn  proclaimed  his 
advent  to  the  whole  household,  so  that  by  the  time 
Rupert  and  Daruaris  had  a  word  to  spare  for  outsiders,  the 
family  were  all  gathered  together.  Joyce  came  bringing  in 
the  lamp;  every  one  crowded  round  Denham,  with  eager 
greetings  and  questions;  they  all  talked  at  once,  there  was 
quite  a  babel  in  the  usually  quiet  room,  while  Randolph,  in 
nis  distant  corner,  lay  chafing  at  the  delay,  and  marveling 
how  Hugo  could  wait  so  patiently  beside  him  while  uncer- 
tain what  his  fate  was  to  be. 

It  was  Joyce  who  remembered  the  invalid,  and  drew 
Denham  toward  the  couch. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  Randolph  can  not  hear  your  tidings 
while  we  press  around  you  thus  ;  but  it  must  be  good 
news,  else  he  would  not  look  so  merry  ;  would  he,  Hugo  ?" 
And  she  slipped  her  arm  into  her  husband's. 

"You  saw  his  majesty?"  asked  Randolph,  quickly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  we  saw  him,"  said  Denham,  sobered  by  the  great 
chamge  which  he,  as  a  fresh  comer,  instantly  noticed  in  the 
sick  man.  "  My  father  obtained  an  audience,  and  I  went 
in  with  him  to  tell  how  you  all  pined  away  in  exile  and 
longed  to  return.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  we  found 
the  king  in  excellent  humor,  and  I  delivered  your  letter 
into  his  own  hands,  after  he  had  duly  swallowed  my 
father's  confession." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  Sir  William  ?  Did  he  blame  him 
much  for  having  helped  in  my  escape  ?"  asked  Hugo. 

"  No,  luckily  for  us,  the  story  amused  him,  and  you  know 
you  were  always  a  favorite  with  him.  '  Confound  the  young 
rascal !'  he  exclaimed,  when  we  told  him  how  that  you  were 
alive  and  well,  and  married  to  boot.  'Here  have  I  been 
wasting  prayers  for  his  soul,  deeming  him  in  purgatory, 
when  he  was  all  the  time  enjoying  himself  over  the 
water. "' 

"  And  then  he  asked  whether  you  had  married  the  lady 
of  the  handkerchief,  and  said  he  should  expect  to  see  you 
both  at  Whitehall.  So  after  all,  sir,  "  turning  with  a  smile 
to  Randolph,  "  there  is  some  chance  that  he  may  make  his 
way  at  court,  and  that  in  a  second  wager  I  might  be  the 
loser." 

But  Hugo  shook  his  head.  Randolph  did  not  reply,  only 
with  an  air  of  content  examined  the  written  pardon  which 
Denham  had  brought  back  with  him.  At  length  he  looked 
up  and  said,  with  an  effort, 


382  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

. "  And  what  did  his  majesty  say  to  my  petition  for  Colonel 
Wbarncliffe?" 

Denham  produced  another  parchment. 

"  This  will  render  Colonel  \Yharncliffe  perfectly  safe  in 
returning  to  Mondisfield.  No  one  will  molest  him  tkeru 
so  long  as  he  does  not  mix  himself  up.  in  public  matters." 

Bandolph  glanced  at  the  document,  then  handed  it  to 
his  kinsman. 

"  You  run  no  risk  in  returning,  sir,"  he  said.  "  No  one 
bore  any  ill-will  to  you  except  myself ;  you  might  have 
been  at  Mondisfield  now  had  it  not  been  for  me." 

"  All  that  is  past  and  over,"  said  the  colonel,  with  grave 
kindness.  "Do  not  let  us  unearth  an  evil  which  is 
both  repented  of  and  forgiven.  And,  children,  let  us,  be- 
fore separating,  thank  Him  who  has  been  pleased  to  end 
our  exile  and  permit  us  to  go  home." 

Eandolph  looked  on  in  much  surprise  ;  a  great  hush 
fell  upon  the  room  which  just  before  had  been  so  noisy  ; 
even  Denham,  merry,  mischief -making  Denham,  knelt 
gravely  with  the  rest  of  the  family.  An  uneasy  sense  of 
loss  stole  over  the  dying  man  ;  he  glanced  round  the 
wainscoted  walls,  the  cheerful  room  with  its  blazing  fire 
and  mellow  lamplight ;  he  looked  at  little  Evelyn,  nestled 
up  close  to  her  mother ,  his  eyes  wandered  from  one  to 
another,  resting  long  upon  Hugo  and  Joyce  as  they  knelt 
hand  in  hand.  What  was  it  that  he  had  somehow  missed 
in  life?  What  unknown  gift  did  these  kinsfolk  of  his  pos- 
sess which  failed  them  neither  in  prosperity  nor  adversity  ? 

His  life  was  over,  and  he  had  miserably  failed ;  he  knew 
that  he  was  passing  into  an  unknown  country,  and  he  felt 
much  as  an  emigrant  might  feel  who  is  about  to  be  landed 
on  a  foreign  shore  with  no  capital,  with  no  outfit,  with  no 
friends  to  greet  him,  and  with  no  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage. 

And  yet  had  he  absolutely  no  knowledge  ?  did  not  the 
words  which  Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  speaking  bring  back 
to  him  a  faraway  vision  of  his  mother  ?  The  room  grew 
hazy  and  indistinct;  he  though  he  was  home,  in  the  old 
home  which  had  been  desolated  in  the  great  plague  year. 
Was  it  a  dream  that  he  was  young  and  innocent  once 
more? 

Yes,  for  the  mist  rolled  away,  and  he  was  back  again  in 
the  present;  for  years  past  he  had  mocked  at  "innocency," 
and  had  not  taken  heed  to  the  things  that  were  right ;  how 
was  it  likely  that  he  should  have  "  peace  at  the  last  ?  " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  383 

A  less  reserved  man  would  have  groaned  aloud,  but 
Randolph  was  silent;  no  sign  escaped  him  of  that  most 
terrible  pain — the  torture  of  realizing  that  a  life  wasted — 
ay,  and  worse  than  wasted — is  over.  In  his  anguish  he 
looked  at  his  brother.  Hugo  would  live  on  and  leave 
behind  him  a  name  beloved  and  honored — Hugo  would 
leave  the  world  better  than  he  found  it !  How  hideous  did 
his  own  past  look  as  it  rose  before  him — rose  in  contrast 
with  the  other's  happy  future !  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
did  he  realize  in  all  its  fullness  the  bitterness  of  death. 

God  himself  can  not  give  us  back  our  lost  opportunities. 

So,  in  the  "  Golden  Days,"  as  now,  were  men  led  by 
suffering,  by  failure,  by  love,  by  life,  and  by  death  to  the 
perception  of  their  human  weakness,  their  divine  strength. 

Very  still  was  the  room  where  that  final  struggle  raged. 
Very  calm  was  the  colonel's  voice  as  he  spoke  the  closing 
words  of  their  thanksgiving. 

"  The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  love  of 
God,  and  the  communion  of  the  Holy  Spirit  be  with  us  all. 
Amen." 

A  second  voice  joined  faintly  in  the  last  word.  They  all 
of  them  noticed  it,  for  in  thfit  Puritan  household  it  was 
not  the  custom  ;  they  noticed  it,  and  remembered  it  after- 
ward with  comfort. 

"  You  will  be  weary  after  this  excitement,"  said  Hugo, 
drawing  near  to  the  couch,  while  Joyce  went  to  kiss  and 
congratulate  her  father  and  mother,  and  Rupert  and 
Damaris  wandered  off  to  the  oriel  window.  "  You  mutt 
rest — we  will  take  you  back  to — " 

But  there  he  broke  off  with  a  stifled  exclamation  of  grief 
and  awe. 

His  brother  was  dead. 


THE  END. 


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